FROM KAYES TO TIMBUKTU
On October 10, 1895, we finally left Kayes. Our packages had been
piled up the evening before in three railway wagons, and our party
now took their places in the carriages. Baudry, Bluzet, and Sauzereau
our engineer, who were to go up in the _Davoust_, remained, and
the rest of my staff were the following: the second master pilot,
Samba Amadi, generally called Digui, a man of colossal height and
herculean strength, but more remarkable still for his zeal, his
fidelity, and his nautical skill; the native interpreter Suleyman
Gundiamu, who had been to Timbuktu with Caron as one of his coolies;
the Arabic translator, Abdulaye Dem, a cunning and intelligent little
Toucouleur, more cultivated than most of the negro marabouts; and
twenty coolies, or native sailors.
We reached Bafolabé in the evening without incident. A ferry-boat
took us across the Bafing, one of the two rivers which unite to form
the Senegal. A road some two feet wide starts from the right bank of
the Bafing, and follows the course of the other affluent, the Bakhoy,
to the village of Djubeba, where we camped on the evening of the 13th.
Thus far our journey had been effected by the aid of very civilized
means of transport. On leaving Djubeba, however, our difficulties
were to begin.
[Illustration: LEFEBVRE CARTS UNHARNESSED.]
The carriage, or rather cart, which is used in the French Sudan
for taking down provisions and other necessaries to our different
stations on the Niger is of the kind known as the Lefebvre, about
which there was so much talk during the Madagascar expedition. It
consists of a big case of sheet iron mounted on a crank axle, and
provided with two wheels. It is drawn by a mule.
Is it an ideal equipage? or is it as bad as it is painted? I do not
venture to decide the question. The truth, perhaps, lies between
the two extremes. On the one hand, these carts were always able to
follow our troops in the Sudan; but on the other, their intrinsic
weight might very well be lessened. The chief advantage of metal
rather than of wooden carts, is that they are watertight, and that
when unloaded they can be floated across streams or rivers, but as
I have never seen a Lefebvre cart execute this manœuvre, I feel a
little sceptical about it still.
[Illustration: LOADING OUR CONVOY.]
When the packages to be carried are small, compact, and about the
same size and shape, it is easy enough to stow them away, but this
was by no means the case with ours, and our large packages would be
fearfully difficult to arrange and balance in the heavy metal carts.
On the 14th the mules arrived, some of which were to be harnessed
to the carts, whilst others were to carry pack-saddles. The whole
of that day and the next were occupied in the arranging and loading.
The sections of the _Davoust_ could not, of course, have been carried
in carts in any case. I had asked for seventy porters to take charge
of them, and these porters arrived in the evening. There was nothing
now to prevent our starting.
The route from the French Sudan, so often traversed to re-victual
our stations, has been too many times described for me to pause to
speak of the stages by which the traveller passes from the banks of
the Senegal to those of the Niger. For us, the usual difficulties
were increased by the variety of our means of transport, including
as they did carts, mules with pack-saddles, and porters. Moreover,
ours was the first convoy which had passed over the route since the
winter, and the road had not yet been mended all the way. The first
few days were very tiring, and men and animals were all alike done
up when we reached our first halting-place a little after noon. But
every one did his best, and became more skilful at managing, so that
in three days after the start our black fellows were as well up to
their work as we were ourselves.
This was our general mode of dividing the day. At two o’clock in
the morning the blowing of a horn roused everybody; the drivers gave
the animals their nose-bags containing a few handfuls of millet to
keep up their strength on the road; Bluzet, to whose special care
I had confided the porters, collected his people, whilst our cook
quickly warmed for each of us a cup of coffee which had been prepared
overnight. An hour later we were off, the porters leading the way,
our path lighted by torches of twisted straw, the fitful gleam of
which made our negroes look like a troop of devils come to hold
their sabbat in Central Africa.
Bluzet rides at the head of the caravan, looking back every now and
then, whilst two or three coolies run in the rear or on the flanks of
our little column, like sheep dogs keeping a flock together. About a
hundred yards behind the carts come jolting along on their rumbling
iron wheels, whilst the pack animals bring up the rear.
[Illustration: LIEUTENANT BLUZET.]
For one moment we file silently through the hush and calm of the
tropical night, only broken by the cry of some bird, or the tap-tap
of the Sudan woodpecker. But presently we come to a big hole in
the ground, there is a shout of “Attention—_Kini bulo!_”
(to the right), and from one leader to another the cry _Kini bulo!_
is repeated, and averts a catastrophe by letting every one know how
to avoid the obstacle. A great galloping now ensues to catch up the
leading cart, and this time the difficult place is passed without
accident; but often enough a wheel slips into the bog, and in spite
of all the poor mule’s tugging at her collar there it sticks. We
all have to rush to the rescue, drivers and coolies literally put
their shoulders to the wheel, and with shouts of encouragement and
oaths they finally extricate it. It is out again at last, and we
resume our march.
[Illustration: CROSSING A MARIGOT.]
Then we come perhaps to what is called a _marigot_ in West Africa,
that is to say, a little stream which is dried up part of the year,
and is a characteristic feature of the country. Before the rainy
season it has probably been bridged roughly over, and a few planks
have been thrown down at its edge, but in the torrential downpours
of rain of the winter the planks have sunk, and the bridge has been
partially destroyed. We have to call a halt; to cut wood and grass to
mend the bridge, and carry stones and earth to make stepping-stones,
etc., so that it is often an hour or two before we can get across.
But now the horizon begins to glow with warm colour. The sun is
rising, and as it gradually appears, its rays, which are not yet
powerful enough to scorch us, softened as they are by the mists of
the early morning, give a fresh impulse to the whole caravan. One
of the drivers gives a loud cry, alike shrill and hoarse: it is the
beginning of a native chant, in which the names of chiefs and heroes
of the past, such as Sundiata, Sumanguru, Monson, and Bina Ali,
occur again and again. The singer’s comrades take up the refrain
in muffled tones. Then another negro brings out of his goat-skin
bag a flute made of a hollow bamboo stem, and for hours at a time
keeps on emitting from it six notes, always the same. The porters
also have their music, and our _griot_[3] Wali leads them on a kind
of primitive harp with cat-gut strings, made of a calabash and a
bit of twisted wood, from which hang little plaques of tin, which
tinkle when the instrument is played.
[Illustration: WE ALL HAVE TO RUSH TO THE RESCUE.]
And so we leave the long miles behind us. Every other hour we let
the men and beasts have ten minutes’ rest, until the moment arrives
when we catch sight amongst the trees of the pointed thatched roofs or
the flat terraces of mud huts of the village at which we are to camp.
[Illustration: OUR TETHERED MULES.]
The mules are unharnessed or unsaddled, as the case may be, and
tethered in a row by ropes fastened to one foot, whilst the carts are
packed like artillery. Presently we shall take the animals to drink at
a neighbouring stream, and then their food will be thrown down before
them, and they will fling themselves upon it like gluttons, eating
the grain at once, but chewing the straw for the rest of the day.
Just a glance now over the loads to see that all is right. Nothing is
missing. That’s a good job! Meanwhile our black cook has set up his
saucepan on three stones, and a folding table has been opened beside
some rapidly constructed grass huts which smell delicious. Breakfast
over, we give ourselves up to the delights of a siesta.
In the afternoon we go and look at the animals, who refreshed by
their rest, joyfully prick up their ears at our approach. They are
good beasts, these mules, or Fali-Ba (big asses), as the negroes
call them. They were torn from their native land, Algeria, huddled
together between-decks on some crowded boat, where they suffered much
from the motion, and were then taken to Kayes, where fresh martyrdom
awaited them. Beneath the broiling sun to which they have never been
accustomed, they have to drag their carts, as a convict does his
chain. Instead of the barley and oats of their own land, they have
to put up with hard and bitter millet, instead of scented hay they
get the coarse rough grass of the Sudan. As long as they live—and
that won’t be more than five years at the most—they will have to
plod along the same road again and again, and cross the same marigots,
until the moment of release comes, when they will fall between their
shafts, and their emaciated bodies will be thrown aside in the bush,
there to feast the hyæna and the jackal, whose jarring laugh and
shriek so often disturb the rest of the weary traveller.
Was it the heat of the African sun, I wonder, which converted
some of the members of our expedition into poets, and led to such
outpourings as I quote below? I cannot say, but these are the words
written by one of our party to the _manes_ of the Fali-Ba, who have
fallen beneath the burning sky of the Sudan. I pray critics to be
merciful to these inter-tropical effusions.
THE TETHERED MULE.
With lean neck stretch’d toward the scatter’d grain,
He scents his provender with dainty air,
Casts one side glance at his companions there,
And beats with twitching ear a glad refrain.
Gone all remembrance of the anguish’d strain
’Neath kicks and blows, and ’neath the scorching glare
Of torrid skies above the hillside bare,
And of the toil that ever comes again.
His banquet ended, calmly he digests,
While o’er him sweeps a most divine repose:
Faintly in dreams his memory suggests
Long lost repasts, whereat his dark eye glows;
Thus, bathed in vague nostalgia, he rests,
While through the bush the sunset tremor flows.
At last the sun sets, the sentinels are chosen and posted for the
night, and we gather once more round our little table for supper,
chatting now about our plans for the future, now about the past,
telling stories which ere long will become so familiar that we could
all repeat them by heart and give them each a number of its own. Then
one after the other we retire to our camp-beds to enjoy such repose as
the horrible mosquitoes, which are so clever in finding the tiniest
holes in the nets, will allow, till the morning _réveil_ is sounded
on the horn, and we begin another day, exactly like its predecessor.
Such was our life for twenty days, with slight variations, such
as the crossing of rivers, the over-turning of carts through the
breaking of axles or shafts, etc.
At Kita, however, a very unusual thing occurred: we were able to
indulge in a bicycle race. Our own bicycle, which we had called
Suzanne, met a rival. After all she was not the first comer to the
French Sudan, for a trader at Kita owned another. The match took place
near the post-office, on a really excellent course, and Suzanne won,
although she was not, like her antagonist, provided with pneumatic
tyres. During the race we were entertained by the playing of a band
of little negroes under the care of the _Pères du Saint Esprit_. The
boys, who were some of them scarcely as big as their instruments,
gave us several charming selections from their repertory. Their
conductor was Brother Marie Abel, who with his long beard towered
above his troupe, and reminded me of pictures of the Heavenly Father
surrounded by cherubs, only these cherubs had passed under the
blacking brush. You see we were not without amusements in the Sudan.
[Illustration: DOCTOR TABURET.]
On November 8 we reached Bamako, and after a day’s rest started
for Kolikoro, which was the last stage of our journey by land,
for we were now to become sailors.
On the eve of our arrival, as we were breakfasting at Tolimandio,
who should suddenly appear but our good friend Dr. Taburet, hot,
perspiring, and out of breath with the haste he had made to join
us. I have already said that the two barges, the _Enseigne Aube_
and the _Dantec_, belonging to the Niger flotilla, had been placed
at my service. Taburet, who had received my telegram, had come
from Jenné to Sego, and taken the boats to Kolikoro. Then, eager
to be _en route_, he had gone up stream on the _Dantec_ as far as
Tolimandio in advance of us.
We plied each other with questions, of course. Taburet knew only one
thing, and that was that he meant to accompany me on my expedition. I
had to tell him all that had happened since our parting in June,
and we made the last stage of our journey to Kolikoro riding side
by side, and discussing every detail of our plans.
Kolikoro, or more correctly perhaps, Korokoro, which means the
old rock, was well known to me. I had stopped there in 1889 with
the Niger flotilla for nearly a year. It occupies an extremely
important position, marking as it does the highest navigable point
of the central stretch of the Niger. Of course it is possible to go,
as Taburet had just done, as far as Tolimandio, or even to Manambugu,
at very high tide, but on account of the numerous impediments in the
bed of the stream, it is far better to stop at Kolikoro, which has,
moreover, other advantages in its favour.
I was indeed glad when we came in sight of the curiously abrupt
outlines of the hill overlooking the village. This hill is surmounted
by a plateau on which we had camped once before, and there is a legend
connected with it and Kolikoro, relating to the exploits of Somangoro,
and the long struggle which was at one time maintained between the
Soninké of the Niger districts and the Malinké from Kita.
[Illustration: ARRIVAL AT KOLIKORO.]
Sundiata was the seventh son of a hunter of Kita and a native woman
of Toron. He was stunted and deformed from his birth, and could
never go with his brothers to the chase, or bring home game for his
mother. She was ashamed of him, and went so far as to curse the boy
who did her so little credit. “Better death than dishonour,” said
Sundiata. “_Moun kafisa malo di toro_,” so runs the refrain sung
by the negroes. He fled to the woods, and there he met a sorceress,
who by means of her charms converted the cripple into the strongest
warrior of the district. He went back to his father, and pretending
to be still infirm, he asked for a stick to lean upon. The hunter cut
him a branch from a tree, but Sundiata broke it as if it were a straw;
then his father gave him a small tree stem, next a gigantic trunk, and
lastly a huge iron rod, which all the blacksmiths of the country had
been at work on for a year, but the young fellow broke them all. In
face of this evident miracle his father and brothers admitted his
superior strength. His courage, his power, and the knowledge of
magic which had been bequeathed to him by the sorceress, drew all
the Malinké to Sundiata, and Samory himself, who is a Malinké,
claims at this present day to be Sundiata returned to earth.
Somangoro, a mighty warrior, and, moreover, learned in witchcraft,
reigned on the banks of the Niger. Certain terrible and mysterious
nostrums rendered him invincible, and he could only be beaten by an
enemy who should succeed in snatching from him the first mouthful
of food he raised to his lips. Now Sundiata, who had made up his
mind to possess himself of the lands belonging to Somangoro, and
knowing the magic power which protected his enemy, pretended to
seek his friendship and alliance by offering to him his own sister
Ma in marriage.
Somangoro had fallen in love with Ma, so he married her, and took
her to his own land. He soon trusted his wife so entirely that he
allowed her alone to prepare and serve his food.
[Illustration: BANKS OF THE RIVER AT KOLIKORO.]
Well, one day when the Soninké chief had drunk rather too much _dolo_
or mead, Ma brought him his food, and having placed before him the
calabash containing the _tau_ (boiled millet or maize), just as he
was raising the first handful to his mouth she sidled up to him as
if about to caress him, and, by an apparently accidental movement,
made him drop it.
“Leave that bit, dear friend,” she said, “it is dirty!” and she flung
it into a corner of the hut. Somangoro, intoxicated with love as
well as with liquor, did not take any notice of what the traitress
had done. Then the cunning Ma, when her husband had left her, picked
up the mouthful of _tau_, and sent it to her brother. Sundiata could
now march against his rival.
This is what happened. The two armies met at Massala; the Soninkés
were beaten. Somangoro hung his weapons on a tree, which is still
pointed out opposite the entrance to the village, and fled to Mount
Kolikoro, where his rival changed him, his horse, and his favourite
griot into stone.
But although he is petrified the Soninké chief retains his magic
power, and the village is still under his protection. At the foot
of the hill two sacred rocks receive the offerings of the negroes,
consisting of ears of millet, chickens, and calabashes filled with
_degue_ (millet flour boiled and strained).
Somangoro is supposed, or rather was supposed, not to tolerate
neighbours, so that when in 1885 a post-office was for the first time
set up on the plateau of the hill, the chief of the village thought
it his duty to warn the officer in charge that it would certainly
fall down. And so it did, for it had been put up too hurriedly, and
collapsed in a violent storm. In 1889 I, in my turn, tried to build
nine earthen huts on the same spot to accommodate the staff of the
Niger flotilla. Pressed for time, I began by putting up a wooden
framework, and the roof was being put on simultaneously with the
adding of the earthen walls. Of course I had supported the corners
of my framework by pieces of wood, but my mason, finding himself
in want of them, did not hesitate to remove them, and therefore,
just what might have been expected happened—my house went down
like a castle of cards, dragging the roof and the men at work on
it with it. Fortunately no one was hurt. Naturally the influence of
Somangoro was supposed to have been at the bottom of the catastrophe,
and I could not get any natives from the village to work for me on
that spot again. I was very much vexed, but fortunately I suddenly
remembered how a certain General of the first Republic managed to
get the blood of Saint Januarius to liquefy when it rebelled against
performing the miracle expected of it. I presented Somangoro with a
white sheep, and at the same time told the sorcerer who superintends
the rites of the hero’s worship that he had a choice of a good
present or a flogging, according to the answer his master should make
to them through him. Under the circumstances, I added, Somangoro
would surely do the best he could for the welfare of his faithful
servant. The event was as I foresaw. The oracle, when consulted,
declared that full permission was granted me to reside where I
liked. Since then I have been supposed throughout Bambara to be on
excellent terms with Somangoro.
Mount Kolikoro is a harbour of refuge for escaped slaves who have
fled from the injustice and brutality of their masters, and declare
themselves to be the captives of Somangoro. No one dares to touch
them as long as they keep close to the rock, so they have built huts
there and till the ground for food.
Another noteworthy fact with regard to this mountain is, that
an oath taken by it whilst eating _degué_ is inviolable. He who
should perjure himself by a lie after that would be sure to lose
his life. When I was in command there I often turned this belief to
account, and got at the truth in matters far too complicated to be
solved by the ordinary light of human reason.
I must also add that Somangoro is also the enemy of thieves. When
anything has been stolen in the village of Kolikoro, a crier is heard
going through the streets at night, calling upon the dead hero to
cause the death of the culprit if he does not return the fruit of his
larceny. Generally the person robbed recovers his property. I do not
know why, but this easy mode of invoking the power attributed amongst
Catholics in Europe to Saint Anthony of Padua is called _Welle da_,
which means literally to appeal to the door.
The first days of our stay at Kolikoro were occupied in unpacking
and going over our stores. We landed our two wooden barges from
the old flotilla, brought down by Taburet, to have the necessary
repairs done. Alas! what a disagreeable surprise we had! It was not
mere repairs they needed, but a complete overhauling. During the
previous winter the wood of the outside had rotted, partly from being
badly kept, and more than half the boarding had to be replaced with
new. The only thing to do was to set to work vigorously to remedy
the evil. Fortunately our friend Osterman, who had already rendered
us so many services, was now at Kolikoro superintending the building
of canoes for the re-victualling of the river stations, and he was
ready to help us again in every way. We succeeded in putting our
three little barks in order, but we never made them as watertight
as they were originally, and especially with the _Aube_ the leakage
was a constant source of anxiety to us all through our trip.
[Illustration: REPAIRING THE ‘AUBE.’]
[Illustration: TIGHTENING THE BOLTS OF THE ‘DAVOUST.’]
Our engineer, Sauzereau, meanwhile was busy putting the _Davoust_
together, an operation the difficulty of which was greatly increased
by the fact that several of the sections had got bent and twisted,
either on the road or during the time when she was left at
Badumbé. In her case also we had to resort to various ingenious
contrivances, supplementing the original metal with pieces of wood
or iron rods. On November 19 we launched her, but the water rushed
in in floods through the badly fitting joints, and our unfortunate
vessel seemed more like a huge strainer than anything else. Well,
we must tighten the bolts somehow! So in somewhat primitive costumes
we armed ourselves with turn-screws, and with our feet in the water
did our best. Taburet especially distinguished himself at this work,
and was so full of zeal, that in his too eager efforts he even
broke off some of the heads of the bolts. We were obliged to check
our good doctor’s ardour a little. At last, what with blows from
our turn-screws, and the use of plenty of putty and a little tow,
we succeeded in draining the boat.
[Illustration: PROCESSION OF BOYS AFTER CIRCUMCISION.]
We made two straw couches on the _Aube_, and—unheard-of luxury!—we
covered over the plank ceilings of the _Davoust_ with pretty yellow
mats made in the country, the colours of which harmonized well with
the light grey of the wood.
Whilst we were thus at work we were able to make our observations at
our leisure on the life of the village. We happened to have arrived
just at the time of an annual fête, which is the delight of all
the natives of Bambara, except perhaps those on whose account it is
held. I allude to the ceremony of Buluku, or circumcision, which is
performed on male negroes at the age of twelve, whilst young girls
of a similar age are subjected to an operation of a corresponding
but more barbarous kind. Male and female blacksmiths, who, amongst
all the Sudanese tribes, are a class apart, are the operators. The
victims are taken outside the village to a wood considered sacred, and
there they are compelled to dance and shout till they are exhausted
with fatigue, and reduced with the further aid of copious draughts
of _libo_, or millet beer, to a state of semi-insensibility. The
operation of circumcision is then performed with a sharp little
knife, on a mortar for grinding millet turned upside down. The poor
children must not utter a cry or even moan, although, judging from
the expression of their faces, they suffer a good deal. The young
girls undergo a similar treatment, but whereas their brothers are
all right again two or three days afterwards, they are ill for more
than a month. During the period of convalescence the children are
not allowed to return to the huts of their parents. Under the care
of the blacksmiths they are to be seen going round and round the
villages in small parties singing, and during this march they are
allowed to take anything they fancy without paying for it. All this
time the girls are covered by big white veils, whilst the boys wear
a cap of a peculiar shape; both sexes carry a musical instrument
made of pieces of calabash, threaded on a thin branch of some tree,
the clinking of which is heard a long way off.
[Illustration: THE SACRED BAOBAB OF KOLIKORO.]
At Kolikoro, the year after this ceremony, the girls who have been
operated on give a fête called the _Wansofili_. In the centre of
the village is a huge baobab tree many centuries old, which is held
sacred by the natives, and is supposed to have the power of making
women prolific. The girls alluded to above gather about this tree
in groups and rub their stomachs against the trunk with a hope
of thus ensuring offspring. The ceremony winds up with a debauch,
during which scenes occur which have perhaps more to do with the
perpetuation of the race of the Bambaras than even the venerated
baobab. One evening when I had gone to witness a _Wansofili_,
I was obliged to imitate the example of Jacob’s son and to flee
from the daughters of the village, lest my dignity as Commander of
the expedition should be compromised. It was too hot for me to be
wearing a mantle, otherwise I should certainly have left it behind me.
On the occasion of the Buluku a certain Kieka-Sanké came to give us
a _tam-tam_ of his own. Kieka-Sanké, I must explain, is a member
of the Koridjuga tribe, a caste with its own special customs and
its own dancers and singers, I might almost say composers.
Sanké was an old acquaintance of mine, and his mummeries had often
amused me. Moreover, the information he had given me had often
been most useful, for the right bank of the river was then still
in the power of the Toucouleurs, and I had neighbours at Guni,
and in Sanké’s own village, on whom it was necessary to keep a
vigilant watch.
Now Sanké’s profession enabled him to go everywhere and to see
everything without being suspected, so that he was often able to warn
me in good time of what the Toucouleurs were thinking of doing. But
those anxious days are over now, and he came to Kolikoro on this
occasion merely to exercise his art. His greatest successes have been
achieved when he has been disguised as a woman, for he is wonderfully
clever at imitating feminine ways. As he dances he strikes a calabash
full of little flints, and composes songs on the spot which are full
of caustic humour. One of his privileges, and he values it greatly,
is that he can say anything to or of anybody without giving offence.
During my first stay at Kolikoro, Sanké was particularly fond of
taking off the Mussulman Toucouleurs, and I remember one day how,
_à propos_ of their many prostrations and genuflexions, he said,
“What pleasure can these fellows give to Allah by showing Him
their backs three times a day!” My lady readers must pardon me;
the Bambara language is in certain expressions no more refined than
the Latin.
[Illustration: THE FLEET OF MY EXPEDITION.]
This time Sanké, after having as usual given us all the news,
imitated the taking of a village. Wearing huge plumes on his head, and
riding astride on a stick with a horse’s head, which represented
his war steed, and a wooden gun in his hand, he was in his own
person the besieger and the besieged. It was really interesting to
see him imitate, with a skill many comedians might envy, the fierce
gestures of a mounted warrior charging, the crafty bearing of the
foot soldier hidden behind some cover waiting to rush out on the
unsuspecting enemy, the fall of the wounded, the convulsions of the
dying. The performance ended with a song in praise of the French in
general and ourselves in particular. In these impromptu verses Sanké
advised women to lay aside their spinning-wheels, for the white men
would give them money and fine clothes for much less tiring work. I
refrain from quoting more.
On December 12 we embarked our last load, and at half-past two
we started.
On the 17th we anchored opposite Sego, where we were to receive from
the Government stores the greater amount of the reserve provisions for
three months which we had to take with us in some hundred and fifty
cases. Bluzet raised his arms to Heaven in despair when he saw the
huge piles. “We shall never get them into our hold!” he cried,
“unless the axiom that the lesser cannot contain the greater is not
true after all.” He did not, however, realize what skilful stowage
could do. Baudry disappeared at the bottom of the hold, and nothing
more was seen of him that day. And what he did then as second in
command he had to do again and again for a whole month, unpacking and
repacking, hunting about amongst the confusion of packages and cases
for the one containing what was wanted. I confess I often pitied him
from the bottom of my heart, the more that the temperature beneath
the metal roof of our hold was not one easily borne by a European.
At half-past two in the afternoon Captain Destenaves, at one time
resident at Bandiagara, arrived from Massina, where he had been in
command for more than a year.
Destenaves had led our expedition to Mossi and Dori. From the latter
town, which is situated on the borders of the Tuareg districts, he
had brought much interesting information, and he was also accompanied
by an old man named Abdul Dori, who declared himself ready to join
our expedition.
[Illustration: DIGUI AND THE COOLIES OF THE ‘JULES DAVOUST.’]
Abdul was what is known in these parts as a _diavandu Fulah_, that
is to say, a Fulah belonging to a family which resembles in certain
respects the _griots_ of whom I have had more than once occasion to
speak. A _diavandu_ attaches himself to the person of some chief,
whom he serves as a confidential agent, courier, etc. He toadies his
master to the top of his bent, and so makes a good thing out of him,
by hook or by crook. Even if he is not exactly a noble character,
it is impossible to deny that the _diavandu_ is often very full of
intelligence and address. If Abdul had really resolved to join us he
might have rendered us very great services, but, as will be seen,
the sly fellow had his own particular schemes to further, and was
perhaps even a spy in the pay of the Toucouleurs sent to watch and
circumvent us.
Destenaves was, moreover, in a great state of indignation, for
though his expedition had succeeded at Dori, it had come to grief at
Mossi. He had even had to fire a few shots. He laid all the blame, not
without reason, on the former Governor of the French Sudan. In fact,
M. Grodet, instead of letting Destenaves go first to Bobo Diulasso,
where he would have been sure of a good reception, made him adopt an
unfortunate course. Unable, in face of his instructions from home,
to stop the expedition altogether, as in our case, he ordered its
leader to go towards the districts occupied by the Mossi, who were
wholly unprepared to receive it.
We left Sego on the morning of the 18th, and arrived the same day
at Sansanding, where my good friend Mademba was waiting for us.
Every traveller who has been to Mademba’s, and has since written
an account of his journey, has made a point, not without justice,
of bearing grateful testimony to the merits of this noble fellow.
Mademba Seye is a native who was at one time in the employ of
the French post and telegraph office. He especially distinguished
himself during the construction of the line which, keeping alongside
of the Senegal, crosses the Toucouleur districts of the Senegalese
Foota. Just now the Toucouleurs were very much irritated against us,
and full of arrogance because no punishment had been inflicted on
them for their daily misdeeds. They stopped barges coming up from
St. Louis, they molested the traders and pillaged their merchandise,
and the greatest skill, courage, and _savoir faire_ were needed on
the part of Mademba to conquer the difficulties besetting his path.
[Illustration: MADEMBA.]
Later he did wonders in the Sudan, and his defence of the village of
Guinina was a glorious feat of arms. He was victorious over the troops
of Fabu, the brother of Samory, though he had no one with him but the
few employés helping him to put down the line. Colonel Gallieni sent
for him to be a kind of chief interpreter, and he held that position
until, the Toucouleurs having been driven from Sego and Nioro,
the country just conquered by the French was properly organized.
A small kingdom, with Sansanding as capital, was placed under Mademba;
he had in his service a certain number of _sofas_, or captive Amadu
warriors, who had surrendered to the French and to the natives. Our
postmaster-general soon became the _Fama Mademba_, the word _fama_
signifying a chief or king among the natives of Bambara.
Mademba gathered a court about him, showing a very clear sense of
the right policy to pursue. When with us his manners and tastes
were quite civilized, but he knew that to get an influence over his
new subjects he must adopt the customs of their chiefs. He began
by building himself a palace, which consists of a vast rectangular
enceinte, with a door embellished with rough ornaments in clay. In
the first vestibule, or _bolo_, are the guards, or _dalasiguis_,
armed with muskets. This porch gives access to a series of courts
and other _bolos_, where of an evening bellow the cattle and bleat
the sheep belonging to the chief. A last door, guarded or rather
watched over by some fifteen children, gives access to the favourite
apartment of the _Fama_. Why should children be employed? Because
they are the only people who can be depended on to tell the truth,
and if they notice anything unusual they are very sure, sooner or
later, to tell what they have seen. For the same reason, perhaps,
and also on æsthetic grounds, the _Fama_ is waited on by women only,
most of whom are the daughters of blacksmiths or griots, specially
attached to the chief, their name, _Korosiguis_, meaning, “those
who sit beside.” Moreover, Mademba showed great acumen in his
choice of servants, and I never saw so many pretty girls anywhere
else in the Sudan.
Behind the royal apartments, and completely surrounding the vast
enclosure, are the huts of Mademba’s wives; but there begins the
private life of the chief, and I can’t introduce you to that,
for the simple reason that I have never seen anything of it myself.
Surrounded by his male and female griots, wearing a grand green
_burnous_, on which gleamed the Cross of the Legion of Honour,
the reward of his courage in the service of France, Mademba came
to the banks of the river to welcome us. Shouts and acclamations of
delight and sympathy with us greeted us as we landed, and if we had
not known what all the fuss meant, we might have mistaken it for a
declaration of war.
We went home with the _Fama_, and there, taking off his _burnous_,
the black chief disappeared, to be replaced by our old friend Mademba,
cultivated, refined, a charming talker, quite up-to-date in all that
was going on in Europe, the man whom all Frenchmen who have been in
the Sudan know and appreciate. He did the honours of an excellent,
almost European meal, and we drank a glass of champagne together,
in spite of his being a good Mussulman, for he has none of the stupid
fanaticism of his fellow believers.
Just before we started I had made the following little speech to
my coolies: “My friends, I know I am asking what will cost you a
good deal of self-denial, but you must oblige me by not being too
attentive to the women you meet until we have reached Timbuktu. You
know that that sort of thing leads to disputes, sometimes even
to regular quarrels, with the natives, and we shall have quite
enough hostility to contend with without creating any ill-feeling
ourselves. I warn you, moreover, that I shall give you no more pay
after we leave Sansanding till we reach our goal. I will, however,
give you two months’ pay in advance at Sansanding, and you will have
three days to spend it in. For a year therefore, and perhaps more,
after you leave Sansanding, remember, you have done with women.”
Truth to tell, I had learnt from experience that the ardent
temperaments of negroes forming the escorts of expeditions really
often jeopardized success, if their amours did not actually bring
about failure. Of course I can’t be sure that my orders, which
I repeated later, were always strictly obeyed, but at all events I
did a good deal to lessen the evil.
[Illustration: YAKARÉ.]
I gave my jolly fellows three days to enjoy themselves in, and they
took me at my word. Until half-past one on the 22nd I saw next to
nothing of them on board, and when the time for starting arrived
I had to send to hunt up our little Abdulaye Dem, who had quite
forgotten how the time went in the society of a coal black Circe.
Meanwhile, we Europeans amused ourselves far more usefully in
arranging for our further journey, and in trying the effect on the
natives of our most attractive possessions, viz. the little organ,
the bicycle, and the phonograph.
The organ had already done wonders, and as for our _Suzanne_, as we
called our bicycle, she caused a perfect delirium of joy.
Mademba had an ancient-looking negress of Amadu, named Yakaré,
in his suite. She was really only about forty years old, but she
was considered one of the cleverest women in all Bambara.
There was a certain ring about her songs of war and love which would
be appreciated even in Europe, and the following specimen, in which
she glorifies Donga or the vulture, Monson, the greatest _fama_
of Bambara, will serve to give an idea of the rhythm.
Braves! Heroes, who of you dares rail at Donga?
I tell you evil will come upon you if you mock at him.
Raillery of him was fatal to Diakuruna Tutun.
Samaniana Baci thought to play with Donga,
He fancied he could make merry with him;
But that did not please the vulture,
And he took Bamana Dankun
And cut off his head, yes, took his head from his shoulders.
Dankun had only said that the Bambaras
Could not pause in sacrifices already begun.[4]
I sing of Donga Jaribata,[5]
The vulture of four wings,
A mighty bird, whose talons
Can tear up the soil of the earth;
A bird who if he will
Can dig a well with his claws.
You can just imagine the sensation when, after the negress had
finished her chant, the phonograph repeated it without anybody’s
help.
[Illustration: LARGE NIGER CANOES.]
But all good things must come to an end, and to the great regret of
my coolies, I gave the signal for departure on the 22nd.
Below Sansanding the Niger increases sensibly in depth. This fact
explains alike the former and the future importance of the village as
a commercial centre. The trade of the country is, in fact, conveyed up
and down by water in big canoes some 60 feet long, capable of carrying
twenty tons, and made of planks tied together. Holes are pierced in
these planks, through which ropes are passed made of the fibres, which
are very strong, of the leaves of a kind of hibiscus. When Sansanding,
Jenné, and Timbuktu were prosperous places, when the savage hordes
of Toucouleurs had not yet spread death and desolation everywhere in
the name of Islam, these heavy craft, sometimes drawing more than
six feet, used to halt at Sansanding. For the traffic further up
stream smaller boats were used, which plied to and fro nearly all
the year round. A central mart was absolutely indispensable to the
Sudan merchants, and Sansanding was fitted by nature to become that
mart. I believe that in its most prosperous times it numbered from
thirty to forty thousand inhabitants, though now these are reduced
to some three or four thousand, in spite of the fresh impulse given
by the more prosperous times of to-day, and the intelligence of the
governor Mademba.
When the railway has been pushed from Kayes to Kolikoro, and when
steamboats ply on the Niger, similar causes will of course produce
similar results. Steamboats will not, however, be able to go beyond
Sansanding all the year round, for no amount of improvement in
their build can reduce their draught below one and a half or two
feet. Above this point, however, the river is navigable for a longer
or shorter time every year in such barges as are now in use. At
the most, the traffic is only interrupted for about four months
in the year. Sansanding will again become a central emporium and
transhipping station; all its old importance will be restored to it.
I may add, that it has fortunately many other advantages, including
good anchorage and landing places, where boats can be moored in
shelter during the violent storms of Central Africa; the soil too
is very dry, so that the place is healthier than many others in the
Sudan, and the people are gentle, intelligent, and industrious.
Beyond Sansanding the course of the Niger changes considerably. Thus
far the river flows between pretty straight uniform banks, but
now the hills are lower, and behind them the country is perfectly
flat, without so much as an undulation, so that they are completely
flooded, often for an immense distance, when the water is high. Here
and there villages rise from slight eminences, the clumps of hibiscus
surrounding them rendering them visible from afar. Now too appears the
sweet grass which the natives call _burgu_, a special characteristic
of the riverside vegetation as far as Say. It is a kind of aquatic
couch-grass nearly level with the soil when on the subsiding of the
floods the ground becomes dry again. Directly the soil is once more
inundated, however, the burgu sends out shoots with extraordinary
rapidity, and they grow so fast that they soon reach the top of
the water. The natives make a sweet beverage of the leaves of
this grass, of too sickly a taste to be fancied by Europeans, but
negroes are very fond of it. For our hydrographical surveys the burgu
was a most invaluable help, growing as it does, as I have already
remarked, wherever the solid ground reappears after the floods. If,
therefore, we should be overtaken by a tornado on the open river,
we can always take refuge from the waves by anchoring in the middle
of the submerged tracts.
On January 1 we reached Gurao on Lake Debo, where I had recently
resided for two years in charge of the Niger flotilla, consisting of
the two gunboats _Niger_ and _Mage_, and a few barges made of the
wood of the country. Two of these barges, it will be remembered,
were now part of our exploring expedition.
We paid a visit between whiles to the tomb of Sidi Hamet Beckay,
in the village of Saredina. I shall often have occasion later to
refer to this worthy, so I will content myself with adding but a
few words about him here. It was thanks to him that Barth was able
to stop six months at Timbuktu, pursue his voyage in safety, and
go down the river by Say to Sokoto, whence he had started eighteen
months before. Thanks to him too, Barth was able to send details
to Europe of the hitherto mysterious city of Timbuktu, which had
previously been visited by no white men except René Caillé.
When El Hadj Omar and his fanatical hordes came to devastate Massina,
Hamet Beckay did his utmost to stop the course of the Toucouleur
conqueror, by urging on him his own interpretation of the Mussulman
religion, which he also professed: an interpretation too noble and
elevated to be adopted by any but a few votaries. It was all in vain;
his remonstrances were unheeded by El Hadj. Beckay had to be content
with organizing a stout resistance; he summoned to arms his faithful
friends the Tuaregs and the Fulahs, his former adversaries. But,
alas! he died at Saredina before he could accomplish anything. The
story goes, that when in perfect health he was seized with a gloomy
presentiment of his approaching end. He called his intimate friends
together, telling them that he might perhaps soon be summoned to make
a distant journey, and giving to them his turban and his sword, the
former for his son Abiddin, the latter for his son-in-law, Beckay Uld
Ama Lamine, which signified that he bequeathed his spiritual power
to Abiddin and his temporal authority to Ama Lamine. Then he begged
to be left alone to pray during the hour of the siesta. When his
followers returned they found the great marabout, his chaplet, clasped
in his hands, and his eyes closed in an attitude of ecstasy. After
watching him for a short time they became alarmed at his immobility,
they touched him to try and awake him. But his lifeless body fell
to the ground, the spirit of Hamet Beckay had left its earthly
tabernacle. Beckay Uld Ama Lamine continued the struggle begun by
his father-in-law, and to him and his faithful adherents is due the
honour of having besieged and killed El Hadj Omar at Hamdallahi. The
blood-stained course of the Toucouleurs was checked for the moment,
and the Western Sudan was saved from falling into the hands of the
ferocious warriors of El Hadj.
Saredina is about two and a half miles from the river, and to reach
it we had to cross a partially inundated plain over-grown with grass,
in which nested quantities of aquatic birds. Arrived at the village we
asked to be directed to the tomb, and found it to consist of little
more than a small earthen case upheld by wooden poles, for the mass
of dried bricks which had originally formed the monument to Hamet
Beckay had all but disappeared. The natives of the neighbourhood had
shown little respect for the great chief’s resting-place, and had
used the materials of his tomb to weight their nets and make their
agricultural implements. In my report to the governor of the French
Sudan I put in a plea for a grave more worthy of Hamet Beckay. I hope
my suggestion will be attended to, for it would be not only fitting,
but good policy to preserve the memory of a man whose character was
the more estimable in that such tolerance as his is rare indeed
amongst his fellow believers. Such an act of pious respect for a
Mussulman on our part would greatly increase our moral influence
amongst the Mahommedans of the neighbourhood, especially amongst
those of the interesting Kunta tribe to which Hamet Beckay belonged.
[Illustration: THE TOMB OF HAMET BECKAY AT SAREDINA.]
[Illustration: SARAFÉRÉ.]
At Gurao we had to collect the ammunition for our guns and cannons,
and also to pick up some of our actual weapons, notably a certain
machine gun which had belonged to the Niger flotilla. The work
involved in all this delayed us till the 3rd, but on the afternoon
of that day we resumed our journey.
On the 7th we reached Saraféré, an important market-place near
the junction of the Niger and the Kolikolo, which latter is an arm
of the river, branching off from it a little above Lake Debo. Here
old Abdul Dori, the guide we had engaged at Sego, brought us a young
man named Habilulaye, who was a Kunta, and I seize the opportunity
of his visit to say something about the tribe to which he belonged,
as I shall often have to refer to it.
The Kuntas are of the Arab race, and are descended from the famous
conqueror of North Africa, Sidi Okha, who was a native of Yemen. After
winning over to the religion of Mahomet a considerable portion of
North Africa, his dominion extending nearly to Tangiers, the victor
was assassinated near Biskra, where his tomb is still to be seen.
His descendants spread in many directions, and the Kuntas took root
at Tuat, where as venerated marabouts they exercised, indeed they
still exercise, a very great influence.
During the first half of the present century, Timbuktu occupied
a very difficult and most precarious position. About 1800 a Fulah
marabout, named Othman dan Fodio, carved out for himself a regular
empire between Lake Tchad and the Niger, and his example led to
the revolt, and the generally successful revolt, of nearly all the
Fulahs distributed throughout the river basin. At Massina, Amadu
Lobbo Cissé, a chief—of Soninké birth, it is true, but who had
long resided amongst the Fulahs—raised the standard of revolt
in the name of Islam, and his attempt, after various vicissitudes,
succeeded. He and his son founded later an empire, the influence of
which, with Hamda-Allahi as its capital, soon extended on both banks
of the Niger as far as Timbuktu. Arrived there, however, the Fulahs
found themselves face to face with the Tuareg tribes, who were very
jealous of the maintenance of their independence. War of course soon
broke out, and it lasted for half-a-century without any subjugation
of the Tuaregs. It was not until later that the invasion of the
Toucouleurs, led by El Hadj Omar, united the combatants against
their common foe.
During this time of struggle and trouble Timbuktu, standing as it
did between the two contending parties, passed first to one and then
to the other, and pillaged by both sides, she rapidly declined in
prosperity, and was in danger of complete ruin.
Under these trying circumstances, the merchants of the city, eager
to obtain some sort of security for their lives, their goods, and
their trade, sent to Tuat an earnest petition that some venerated
Kunta marabout should come and live near Timbuktu, hoping that the
respect felt for his piety might put a stop to the depredations of
which their town was the victim.
Sidi Moktar responded to this appeal. He came, and took up his
abode with his family and a few of his more distant relations near
Timbuktu. Of these relations the most celebrated were his brothers
Sidi Aluatta and Sidi Hamet Beckay with his nephew Amadi.
Barth has told us much about them all, but we have now specially to
deal with Hamet Beckay, the doctor’s chief protector.
Imbued through reading Barth’s travels with a belief that the
very fate of my expedition might depend on finding, as he did, some
man universally loved and respected to take me and my followers
under his protection, I earnestly hoped to find such a man amongst
the Tuaregs, with whom I had become well acquainted during my two
years’ residence in the Sudan.
As will be borne out by my further narrative, these Tuaregs seemed
to me far less black than they were painted in Europe. At the same
time, I recognized that certain peculiarities of their character
might involve me in great difficulties. If they were not exactly
instinctively ferocious, I knew that they were quick to take offence,
defiant, full of dread of innovation, and ready to look on every
stranger as a spy. To them a traveller is but the harbinger of
some warlike expedition, which will wrest from them their greatest
treasure, their independence.
But I had to get some one to go bail for me, some one to take me under
his patronage and protection, and I had resolved, if it could possibly
be done, to find that some one amongst the Kuntas. Surely, I thought,
the traditions of tolerance of which Hamet Beckay had given such
striking proof, must have been handed down to some of his descendants.
I did not, however, disguise from myself that in the very nature of
things, since other marabouts had, since Beckay’s death, come to
preach a holy war, and to inculcate hatred of the infidel, that the
Kuntas would necessarily be forced—if they did not wish to lose
their prestige—to howl with the rest of the wolves. But I reflected
there is still time to appeal to the example of their grandfather,
and experience proved that I was right.
I put out all my eloquence and powers of persuasion to win over
young Habibulaye, and I succeeded. From him I learned that the
Kuntas were now divided into several groups. He and his brother
Hamadi, the sons of Sidi Aluatti, the brother of Hamet Beckay, had,
however, remained at Timbuktu when the French occupied that town,
and had all espoused our cause.
Aluatti, the son of Amadi, was in authority on the southern side
of the river, and he looked on our expedition with a favourable
eye. Further on, Baye and Baba Hamet, the sons of Hamet Beckay,
would, I expected, be useful auxiliaries to us if only for the sake
of their father’s memory.
Habibulaye did not, it is true, conceal from me the fact that other
Kuntas were bitterly hostile to us, notably a certain Abiddin,
who generally resided at Tuat, and who meant to rouse the Hoggars
against us. He had, in fact, twice gone quite close to Timbuktu to
try and make the people rise against the French.
More confirmed than ever by all that I heard in my resolve, and having
now got all the information I could out of Habibulaye, who was but
a child, I made up my mind, as soon as I got to Timbuktu to take
Hamadi into my confidence, and get him to give me recommendations
to his relations.
A strong east wind, which lashed the river into waves and was dead
against us, delayed us so much that we did not reach Kabara until
the evening of January 11.
As is well known, Timbuktu is not actually on the river, but at low
water is some eight or nine miles off. Djitafe is then the nearest
point of approach for canoes, but when the river rises they go up a
lateral arm, and come first to Koriomé and then to Day. At certain
times a stream, the bed of which is said to have been hollowed out,
or at least deepened by the hand of man, enables very small craft
to get up to Kabara, whilst more rarely, that is to say, when the
inundations are at their height, the various excavations behind the
Kabara dune are successively filled up, and boats can reach the
capital itself. As a general rule, however, merchandise is taken
into Timbuktu on the backs of camels and asses, the route varying
according to the state of the river.
The ancient capital of Nigritia, or the Sudan, as it was still
called not long ago in geographical text-books, has lost all its
mystery since it passed into the hands of the French, and opinions
are divided as to its present and future position. My friend Felix
Dubois has described it, and it would be alike a waste of time and
presumption on my part to attempt to supplement what he has said so
well. I shall content myself with noting the reason of the former
great commercial importance of Timbuktu; relatively considered of
course. “Timbuktu,” says an Arab author, “is the point of
meeting of the camel and the canoe.” That fact alone would not,
however, be enough to account for its prosperity; many other places on
the river fulfil this condition, as well if not better than Timbuktu,
for, as we can ourselves testify, the canoe and the camel only meet
there a few days in the year, and not always even as often as that.
In my opinion we have to seek the explanation elsewhere, and I think
I have found it. Here it is: camels cannot with impunity approach
rivers or other water-courses, for this reason. The banks are
subject to constant inundations, and, especially in the Niger basin,
quantities of succulent grass, containing a great deal of water,
everywhere spring up, which, though the camel eats them gluttonously,
are fatal to the “ship of the desert,” used as it is to dry food.
Now by a strange freak of nature, the part of the desert, I will not
say exactly the driest part, but certainly the portion containing
neither streams nor permanent pools, that vast expanse improperly
called the Sahara, stretches up to the very gates of Timbuktu, so
that caravans can reach the city without any risk to the animals. In
a word, may we not say that Timbuktu is not a port of the Niger in
the Sahara, but a port of the Sahara near the Niger?
As long as the trade of Timbuktu is carried on chiefly by caravans
coming from the north, it will, in my opinion, retain its importance,
but as soon as the Sudan railway is completed, merchandise will come
by way of it and the river, and the commerce of Timbuktu will be
reduced to a trifling trade in salt, which is dug out in considerable
quantities from the mines of Towdeyni, about twenty days’ march
on the north.
When we arrived, we could only bring our boats up to Kabera. The
port was blocked with big canoes made of planks tied together in
the manner already described, and a brisk trade in salt and grain
was going on on the quays.
[Illustration: A MOSQUE AT TIMBUKTU.]
The next day I went to Timbuktu, and was received with open arms by
the commandant, M. Rejou, who was in charge of the whole district.
I had one thing very much at heart, and I set to work to see about
it at once. It was to persuade Father Hacquart, superior of _Pères
blancs_ mission at Timbuktu, to accompany us on our expedition.
When I said _persuade_, I did not perhaps use quite the right word,
for I did not for one moment doubt the readiness of the good father
to go with us. The companion of Attanoux in his journey amongst
the Tuaregs of the north, formerly _Commandant des Frères armés_
of Mgr. Lavigerie, Father Hacquart could not fail to be won over by
the idea of accomplishing a similar journey. But I knew him to be
too devoted to his duty to hesitate an instant between a project,
however attractive to his tastes and desires, and the interests of
the mission, which had been under his direction at Timbuktu for more
than a year, and to which his rare qualities had already given such
life and success.
On the other hand, even from the point of view of the work to which
Father Hacquart and his companions had devoted themselves, going
down the Niger, opening relations with the natives on its banks, and
obtaining all the information necessary for the work of their future
evangelization, was really perhaps to bring about the good results
hoped for years before they could otherwise have been achieved. The
aim of Father Hacquart was really the same as ours, to see, to study
on the spot, and to make friends, leaving to his superiors the task
of deciding how his future campaign should be carried out.
As for me, nothing could be better for the success of my undertaking
than the co-operation of Father Hacquart. Already familiar with the
manners and customs of the Tuaregs, he would be a most valuable
adviser; a distinguished Arabic scholar, he could in many cases
converse without an interpreter with the natives, a matter of the
greatest importance. He could, moreover, check the translations
and reports of my Arab interpreter, Tierno Abdulaye Dem. Then his
intelligence, the loftiness of his aims and views, the uprightness and
energy of his character, were a sure guarantee that in him I should
find a most valuable controller of my own acts and schemes, for of
course I should ever be ready to listen to what he might suggest.
[Illustration: FATHER HACQUART.]
Father Hacquart turned out indeed to be all that I have just
described. I often changed all my plans in accordance with his advice,
and I never had cause to regret having done so. He must pardon me
for giving expression here to all my gratitude, and for proclaiming
it on every occasion as loud as I can, for it was in a very great
measure to him I owed the remarkable fact, that my Niger expedition
was accomplished in the midst of tribes so diverse and sometimes badly
disposed towards the French—without the firing of a single shot.
As I hoped, Father Hacquart yielded to my persuasions, and we now
numbered five Europeans.
On the other hand, our native escort was reduced. One of our
coolies, Matar Samba, had been out of sorts ever since we left
Sansanding. During the last few days he had become worse, and both
Dr. Taburet and a medical man at Timbuktu were of opinion that he was
suffering from tubercular disease, and would only hamper, not help me,
in the further journey. I decided therefore to leave him at Timbuktu,
and when I came back from Dakar on our return I had the pleasure of
finding him much better, if not completely cured.
Aided by Father Hacquart, I at once opened relations with Hamadi,
the Kunta of whom I have already spoken, and he promised to do
all he could to persuade his relation Aluatta to go with us. It
was significant that when I begged Hamadi to join us himself, he
replied, “No; I might merely arouse opposition, and you might
suffer through my being with you. I would rather write to Aluatta;
he will be more likely to say yes then, for, like a dutiful relation,
I shall only urge him to come and share the windfall of all your
beautiful presents.”
The next thing I did was to try and meet at Timbuktu with some
natives who were on friendly relations with the Awellimiden, the
important Tuareg tribe to which I shall so often have to refer later,
but whether they spoke the truth or were deceiving me, one and all
declared that they knew absolutely nothing about them.
To make up for this, however, a native of Tuat, a certain Bechir Uld
Mbirikat, who had long lived at Timbuktu, and whom I had met before,
gave me some letters for his cousin Mohammed, who was living amongst
the Igwadaren Tuaregs, and for Sheriff Salla Uld Kara, chief of
the village of Tosaye, who had once been the pupil of Hamet Beckay,
and the friend of Barth.
Moreover, Bechir gave me a valuable bit of advice, which I immediately
followed, without, however, fully realizing its importance at the
time. This counsel, perhaps, contributed more than anything we did
to the success of our expedition. “Tell them,” said Bechir,
“that you are the son of Abdul Kerim.” Now Abdul Kerim was the
Arab name assumed by Dr. Barth during his journey. This custom of
taking an Arab name seemed almost comic, and reminded me of a little
play I once saw acted at the Châtelet Theatre in Paris. I forget
the name of it, but a traveller figured in it, who took his servant
with him to the heart of Africa. The latter, who was passionately
fond of travelling, and took an eager interest in all the doings
and adventures of explorers, made but one request, and that was
to be allowed to change his name of Joseph to that of Mohammed Ben
Abdullah. “It was more euphonious,” he said, and the audience
roared with laughter.
Well, Joseph was quite right, and if Barth had not done as he did,
the negroes and Tuaregs would never have remembered his European
name, it would never have become engraved on their memories, it would
never have been transmitted to their descendants, and I should not
have been able to solve all difficulties, however great, and emerge
safely from every situation, however embarrassing, by the simple
words “I am the son, or rather the nephew of Abdul Kerim.”
It is impossible to admire too much the lofty, upright character
of Barth, which so impressed all with whom he came in contact
on his journey, that nearly half a century after his death the
mere fact of his having traversed a district—poor as he was,
and exposed to all manner of dangers, the friendship of Beckay his
only safeguard—should be enough to open the way for a pretended
relation of his.
How few travellers could boast of having done as much, even in
modern times. Too many explorers have indeed, after forcing their
way through a country against the will of the natives, left behind
them a legacy of increased difficulty and danger to their successors.
I was very anxious to secure the services of a political agent with a
thorough knowledge of the country, and the language of the Tuaregs. I
wished to send him, if I could find him, in advance of our party to
take letters to the chiefs, or to plead our cause with them.
Acting on the advice of Hamadi, I chose a certain Sidi Hamet,
distantly connected with the Kuntas, and then employed in the Custom
House at Timbuktu, under one Said, the interpreter of the Post-Office.
I must do this justice to Said, he yielded with anything but a good
grace to the employment of his subordinate on our service, and did
more to dissuade him than to further our wishes. We had to invoke the
aid of Commandant Rejou, and later, at Tosaye, Sidi Hamet piteously
entreated me to let him go back, and I expect Said’s objection
to his joining us had something to do with his faltering. However,
I forgive him with all my heart. Sidi Hamet was the interpreter’s
right hand, his chief source of information on every subject, and
he found it hard work to fulfil his own duties, even those of an
interpreter, without him.
On the 16th I went back to spend a day at Kabara, where I had invited
all the notables of Timbuktu to come and listen to the wonders of
the phonograph. It was an exhibition which long dwelt in the memory
of those present. Amongst the most attentive listeners were the two
sons of the chief of the Eastern Kuntas, who lives at Mabrok. I felt
sure that the rumour of the extraordinary things I had done would
precede me.
Commandant Rejou had already warned Sakhaui, or Sarrawi, chief of
the Igwadaren Aussa, the first Tuareg tribe we should meet on our
way down the river, of our approach. In the evening two envoys from
this chief arrived with a missive, which it was almost impossible
to decipher, but from which, in spite of its ludicrous phraseology,
we managed to make out two things, one being that Sakhaui had no
desire to see us, the other that he was very much afraid of us.
We did our best to reassure and impress the messengers, and finally
succeeded in convincing them that we had no evil intentions with
regard to the Igwadaren, and armed with a fresh document from us
they set off to return to their chief.
Meanwhile Sidi Hamet, who had been well coached in what he was to
say and do, had started on his way to Aluatta, to ask him to meet
us at Kagha, a little village on the right bank about thirty-one
miles from Timbuktu. For the first time I now announced my pretended
relationship with Abdul Kerim, taking myself the Arab name of Abd
el Kader, or the servant of the Most High.
This mission with the Kuntas accomplished, Sidi Hamet was to go to
the Igwadaren of Sakhaui and wait for us.
Having settled everything to the best of our ability, visited the
boats, and repaired any little damage which had been done by the way,
we had now only to give ourselves up to the current of the river
and to the will of God.
It was not without a certain emotion that, on Wednesday, January 22,
we started from Kabara, seen off by all our brother officers of the
garrison of Timbuktu, and escorted to our boats by a great crowd of
natives, who, with more or less enthusiasm, invoked the protection
of Allah on our behalf.
[Illustration: WE LEAVE KABARA.]
As long as our boats were in sight of the station we could see
handkerchiefs and helmets waving to us in token of adieu, and when
the flag of the fort disappeared from view our hearts felt somewhat
oppressed, for we were leaving all that in our exile from France
represented our native country. Henceforth we five white men, with our
twenty-eight black followers, were thrown on our own resources, and
had to depend upon ourselves alone. How many of us would return? How
many of us were destined to sleep our last sleep beneath the soil
of Africa?
[Illustration: AT TIMBUKTU.]
[Illustration: DROVE OF OXEN.]