MISTAKES AND FALSE NEWS
We must now return to our arrival at Say. Although the days there
were most of them monotonous enough, they brought their little ups
and downs, and we received news now and then, of which, under the
circumstances, we naturally sometimes exaggerated the importance. It
would be wearisome for me as well as for the reader to give an
account of what happened every day during our long winter at Fort
Archinard. My notes were written under various difficulties and in
very varying moods, reflecting alike my exaggerated low spirits when
things went wrong, and my excess of delight when anything occurred
to cheer me. Consecutive pages of my journal often contradicted each
other, and any one reading them would imagine they were written by
two different persons; but this is always the way with travellers,
and even Barth himself was not exempt from such fluctuations of mood.
My journal _in extenso_ might serve as an illustration of the
psychology of the lie as illustrated amongst the negroes and
Mussulmans, but no other useful purpose, so I shall greatly condense
it. The reader will still, I hope, get a very good idea of all we
went through. If what I quote is rather incoherent, excuses must
be made for me, for the news we got was often incoherent enough,
and our life at the Fort was rather a puzzle too sometimes, with
our alternations of hope and anxiety.
_Friday, April 10._—We are getting on with our fort; our abattis
are finished and ready for any attack. (This was written the day
after our arrival, whilst our work was still in full swing.)
We put the _Aube_ in dry dock to-day, and it took the united efforts
of us all to haul her into position: non-commissioned officers,
interpreters, servants, all had to work, and even we white men lent
a hand. During the operation of turning her on to her side, the
poor _Aube_ might have tumbled to pieces, for all her planks were
loose. But she held together yet once more, and, as you will see,
we did not have to abandon her until the very end of our voyage.
A new recruit joined us to-day, my journal goes on, so with Suleyman
Futanké we have two extra hands now. This was how he came to join
us. During the siesta hour we heard a man shouting from the other
side of the river, “Agony! agony!” and looking out we saw some
one waving a white cloth. We sent the _Dantec_ to fetch him, and
when he arrived he kept shouting “Agony! agony!” in a joyful
voice. He showed us his cap of European make, evidently expecting
us to understand what he meant, but that did not explain the use of
the word “agony” so often.
It was Tedian Diarra, a big Bambarra, who had acted as guide to
General Dodds in the Dahomey campaign, who solved the mystery at last,
and told us that the man had been a porter at Say to the Decœur
expedition. He had been taken ill with an attack of some discharge
from the joints, and had been left under the care of the chief of the
village to be handed over to the first Frenchman who should happen
to pass. The poor fellow, whose name was Atchino,—at least that
is what we always called him,—was trying to explain to us that he
came from the village of Agony on the Wemé. He had feared he should
never see his native village again, with its bananas and oil palms;
but as soon as he heard of our arrival at Say, he came to take refuge
with us. Later I indemnified the man who had taken care of him for
the expense he had been put to. We made this Atchino our gardener,
and he turned out a very useful fellow, a decided acquisition to
our small staff.
_Monday, April 13._—We finished the repairs of the _Aube_. She
still let the water in like a strainer, but, as we always said,
we were used to that. This expression, “used to it,” was
perpetually employed by us all, and it enabled us to bear with
philosophy all our troubles. It is, in fact, the expression which
gilds the bitterest pills to be swallowed on an exploring expedition,
and no one need dream of starting on such a trip as ours if they
cannot adopt what we may call the philosophy of use and wont on
every occasion. Have twenty-five of us got to pack into a boat about
the size of my hand? What does it matter? go on board, you’ll get
used to it. Have we got to find place for provisions and things to
exchange with the natives when there is no more room? Never mind,
ship them all, we shall get used to them when we settle down. Are
you in a hostile district? Do rumours of war, of approaching columns
of thousands and thousands of natives uniting to attack, trouble
you? Never mind, they will turn out not to be so many after all;
you are used to these rumours now. You have some dreadful rapids in
front of you; you have got to pass them somehow. There are so many,
you can’t count them. Shall we draw back? Shall we allow them to
check our onward march? No, no, we shall get used to them. If you
take them one by one, you will find that each fresh one is not worse
than the last, and that the hundredth is just like the first. You
get quite used to them, at least if you do not lose your boats and
your life too. Which would be the final getting used to things,
the last settling down!
A _diavandu_ and his sister one day presented themselves at the
camp. These _diavandus_, who are the guides and confidants of
the people, are everywhere met with amongst the Fulahs. I don’t
know what trade the sister followed, but this _diavandu_ came to
offer us his services. He offered to perform all the usual duties
of his office on our behalf, and was ready either to sell us milk,
or to act as a spy for us. He was a little fellow, of puny, sickly
appearance. We made him drink some quinine dissolved in water,
and our people told him that the bitter beverage contained all the
talismans of the infernal regions. Certainly the witches in _Macbeth_
never made a philtre nastier than our mixture.
Our _diavandu_ swore by the Koran, without any mental reservations,
that he would be faithful to us, and our spells and the _grisgris_
we had given him would, he knew, kill him if he were false to us,
or betrayed us in any way. Then we sent him to see what was going
on in Amadu’s camp. I do not know what eventually became of
him, but perhaps if he was false to us the quinine killed him by
auto-suggestion; perhaps he was simply suppressed by our enemies,
or he may have died a natural death; anyhow we never saw either him
or his sister again.
About the same time Pullo Khalifa appeared at Fort Archinard, sent, he
said, by Ibrahim Galadio, the friend of Monteil. He began by asking us
what we wanted, but it really was he who wanted to get something out
of us. We gave him a fine red _chechia_ to replace his own, which was
very dirty and greasy. Later we gave him various other presents, but,
strange to say, he always came to visit us in his shabbiest garments.
[Illustration: TALIBIA.]
_Thursday, April 23._—In the evening a sudden noise and confusion
arose on shore at Talibia, and in our camp we heard dogs barking and
women shrieking, whilst the glare of torches lit up the surrounding
darkness. Gradually the tumult died away in the distance. Had the
Toucouleurs been on the way to surprise us, but finding us prepared
given up the idea for the time being? We shouted to Mahmadu Charogne,
but no answer came. Mamé then fired a fowling-piece into the air,
but nothing came of it. All was silent again, but we passed the night
in watching, for we knew that that very morning a man wearing a white
_bubu_ had tried to tamper with our coolies, and to frighten away the
native traders. He had shouted from the left bank that Amadu had let
loose the Silibés upon us, giving them permission to make war on us,
and promising them the blessing of Allah if they beat us. No wonder
such a coincidence as this put us on our guard.
The next morning Mahmadu explained the uproar of the preceding
evening. It had been a question not of an attack on us, but of
a wedding amongst the Koyraberos. He told us a marriage is never
consummated until the bridegroom has literally torn away his bride
from her people, and the rite of abduction, for a regular rite it is,
is a very exciting ceremony. When the suitor comes to pay the dowry
it is customary for him to give his _fiancée_, it is considered good
form for the parents to shrug their shoulders, and pretend that the
sum offered is not enough; millet is very dear just now, they say, and
they cannot afford wedding festivities worthy of their daughter. They
must keep her at home until after the harvest, and so on.
The young man goes home then with bowed head and a general air
of depression. When he gets back to his own village he calls his
relations and friends together, chooses out the best runners and
those who can shout the loudest, and with them returns to seize
the object of his choice. He finally succeeds in taking her away in
the midst of screams, yells, and the sham curses of her relations,
who are really full of joy at the marriage. The so-called ravishers
of the dusky bride are pursued to the last tents of the village,
and the ceremony concludes, as do all weddings amongst the negroes,
with a feast such as that of Gamache immortalized in _Don Quixote_.
Soon after this exciting night our relations with Galadio began,
and throughout the winter all our hopes were centred on this man. We
counted on him to the very last moment as our best friend, and he
really was more reasonable than most of those with whom we had to
do during that dreary time. It must not, however, be forgotten that
amongst Mussulmans, especially those of the Fulah race, wisdom means
profound duplicity. The Fulahs actually have no word to express giving
advice, only one which means “give bad advice,” or “betray by
counsel given.” The idea is simple enough, and is the first which
comes into their heads. So that if by any chance they want for once
to translate our expression, “advise you for your own good,” they
have to go quite out of the way to make the meaning intelligible,
and to use a borrowed word. This is really a reflection of the
Fulah character.
[Illustration: TALIBIA.]
Galadio was in this respect a thorough Fulah, although he had Bambarra
blood in his veins. His mother was a Fulah, of the Culibaly tribe, and
he deceived us perpetually with good words which meant nothing. Still
I must do him the justice to add, that he was careful to save us from
being involved in open war. Perhaps he saw how fatal that would be
to his own influence, or he may have dreaded it as a calamity for the
country he was now living in, or for the people over whom he had been
set. Anyhow he managed to run with the hare and hunt with the hounds:
in other words, to keep in with Amadu and us. He always gave us to
understand, that if the worst came to the worst he would at least
preserve a strict neutrality, and as a reward for this he got many
very fine presents. He was treated almost as the equal of Madidu
himself, and he too received from us a velvet saddle embroidered
with gold. His messengers were provided with a pass by us, and were
received with all due honour, for it was not until quite the end of
our stay that the mystery was solved, and Galadio appeared in his
true colours. Of his own free will he had concluded a regular treaty
with me, a treaty drawn up quite formally in Arabic and French,
and which he signed with his own name. He showed, moreover, a very
eager wish to enter into relations with Bandiagara.
_April 30._—Khalifa is certainly an extraordinary man. To-night he
is to bring to us in a canoe, when the moon is set and all is silence,
darkness, and mystery, no less a person than the brother of the chief
of Say. We watch all night for the signal agreed upon of the approach
of our guests: the lighting of a candle on the bank of the river,
but nothing is to be seen. Was the whole thing simply a manœuvre
on the part of Pullo to get possession of a box of matches and a
candle? Perhaps so, for one of his chief delights when he is in any
of our tents,—and he is very often there,—is to strike matches
one after the other. He is not the only one with this wasteful
habit, Baudry is also afflicted with it, but fortunately we have a
sufficient supply even for such vagaries as this, which really are
very pardonable in the Sudan.
The next day Khalifa and the brother of the chief of Say actually
arrived, after a good deal more fuss and mystery. Even poor little
Arabu, who wanted to sleep in the camp, was sent away, weeping
bitter tears at the thought that his white brothers did not want
him. Very useless were all these precautions, for the brother of
the chief of Say, though perhaps rather more polite, was not a bit
more sincere than he. Our visitor explained that he had come to see
us quite independently, and that his great wish was to make friends
with us. What he really wanted, however, was a _bubu_ and a copy of
the Koran. As his friendship was of a very doubtful quality, we put
off giving the present to another time, when he should have proved
his sincerity by getting us a courier to go to Bandiagara. He went
off promising to see about it.
We had “big brothers” and “little brothers” _ad infinitum_,
but as there is no masculine or feminine in the Fulah language, the
Sudanese when they try to speak French muddle up relationships in a
most original manner, without any distinction of sex. Abdulaye said
to us, with no idea that he was talking nonsense, “My grandfather,
who was the wife of the king of Cayor;” and it is no rare thing for
one of our men to bring a young girl to us in the hope of getting
a present, who is really no relation to him at all, telling us,
“Captain, here is my little brother; he has come to say good-morning
to you.”
In my journal I find the following note _à propos_ of this
confusion of relationships. The grandson of Galadio, who came to
see us, told us he had come to pay his respects to his grandfather,
and I was that grandfather, because I was the big brother of his
other grandfather. The muddle is simply hopeless, but with it all
the natives never lose their heads, but keep in view the possible
present all the time.
[Illustration: GALADIO’S GRANDSON.]
_Sunday, May 3._—The day before yesterday some strange news was
brought us by a boy of about fifteen. He had been sent secretly to us
by the Kurteye marabout we had seen when we were on our way to Say. A
horrible plot was being concocted, he said, for Amadu, remembering the
spells of his father, who had been a great magician at Hamda-Allâhi,
had made an infallible charm against us. On some copy-book paper,
which had evidently been taken off our presents, he had written the
most awful curses, imploring Allah seven times over to exterminate
the Kaffirs, as he called us, and having washed the paper in water
he made a goat drink the decoction thus produced. He then sent that
goat to us, thinking we would buy it! But we were warned in time.
The awful _grisgris_ did, in fact, arrive in camp yesterday in the
form of a black goat. The poor creature did not look as if she were
charged with venom. She was plump not too old, and would make a
first-rate stew.
All our men were, however, afraid to have anything to do with her,
for in their eyes she was indeed a _grisgris_ endowed with unholy
powers by Amadu. The negroes are all superstitious, and their
imagination often quite runs away with them. On the other hand,
faith is sometimes wanting amongst the Mussulmans. Putting on an air
of very great wisdom, therefore, we generously offered two cubits of
stuff, worth about threepence-halfpenny, for the goat filled with
spells against us, and when the trader who had brought her looked
confused, yet almost willing to let us have her at that ridiculous
price, we explained to him emphatically that our own _grisgris_, the
_tubabu grisgris_, had revealed to us the black designs of Amadu,
and we intended to have him and his goat taken back to the other
side of the river, _manu militari_, I very nearly said kicked back.
The Kurteye marabout who had warned us, was evidently a friend, unless
the whole story was made up to get a present from us. Every evening
now regular tornados broke near Say. Up-stream and down-stream,
at Djerma and at Gurma, torrents of rain fell constantly, and the
lightning flashed from every point of the compass; but, strange to
relate, there was no rain at Say itself, and when there is no rain
there is no harvest. The report was now spread that we had called
down on the village the curse of Allah. The other day Amadu Saturu
had publicly recited the _Fatiha_ in the Mosque in the hope of getting
rain to fall, and we were told that in the meeting of the notables of
the place, the Kurteye marabout had got up and asserted that Say was
punished for having given a bad reception to a man sent from God,
in other words, to the chief of our expedition, and because Amadu
had broken his promise and all his solemn oaths.
Like my uncle Dr. Barth in Sarayamo, I now found myself looked upon
as the bringer of storms. He had also been looked upon as a marabout
saint, and the _Fatiha_ had been recited to him in the hope that
he would open the floodgates of heaven. We, Kaffirs though we were,
would soon in our turn be entreated to remove our interdict on the
rain so much needed.
_May 7._—Tierno, after many a discussion, has at last succeeded
in getting us a courier in the person of an ivory merchant from
Hombori. He will take our letters for Bandiagara, an advanced French
post of Massina. Aguibu, king of Massina, and under our protection,
had sent an agent to Hombori, which is on the road there. Our man
would go for 200 francs, 100 payable at Bandiagara and 100 on his
return to us. All, therefore, was for some days excitement and bustle
in our camp. Maps, reports, letters were being rapidly got ready,
and nobody had a moment to spare. Our courier, who did not seem to
feel quite sure of his safety, sent to ask whether during his absence
his family could go to our friend Galadio, who would protect them. We
said yes, of course.
He returned a month later, and said he had not been able to get
to Bandiagara. The Habés, who had risen in revolt, had robbed
him near the village of Dé. He had only escaped with the greatest
difficulty under cover of a tornado, leaving his packet of letters
in the hands of our enemies. We think he romanced a good deal on
the subject, and I fancy that a good search in Amadu Saturu’s
camp would probably result in the discovery of our packet intact,
except for being perhaps gnawed by termites.
I had some little doubt on the subject, however, and it is thanks to
that doubt that the courier still has his head on his shoulders. I
never saw him again.
_May 13._—Great news! We are told by Osman that there are some
white men on the Dori side of the river, but no one knows exactly
how many. Barges full of white men are floating down-stream; they
are now off Ansongo. There is talk of three iron boats like ours;
those in them are all for peace, nothing but peace.
_May 16._—Who is our friend Pullo bringing us this morning? Who is
that man with him who looks like a Tuareg, dressed in blue Guinea
cloth, with a _grisgris_ on his head and a spear and javelin in
his hand?
He is a Fulah, the foster-brother of Madidu, with his pockets full
of news. Twenty days ago he said he had left his “big brother”
to come to Say and sell four oxen for some of the cloth of the
district. One of these oxen had died, another had been stolen. What
a good opportunity to ask us to give him a _bubu_ to make up for
his losses.
Madidu had not known that we were still at Say. Had he done so
he would certainly have sent messengers, perhaps even have come
himself. He or Djamarata would have visited us, for they had gone
down the river as far as Ayoru to chastise Yoba for some want of
respect to us, but I am sure I don’t know what.
Our Fulah had heard a rumour of four white men having come to trade
on the Niger. Madidu had sent two of his blacksmiths to prepare the
way before them, and he had also by this time sent envoys to Timbuktu
to confirm the treaty we had made with him. He did not know what had
become of that treaty, but anyhow he had returned with his pocket
(Heaven only knows the capacity of that pocket) full of knick-knacks
and more than one present for Madidu.
The news of the approach of the barges was confirmed during the
following days, and in my notes I find the following reference
to them:—
_May 17._—A man from Auru who had come to Say told us that at
Ansongo there were three hundred armed men and seven or eight whites
who had come in peace, nothing but peace, and were coming down the
river soon, at least as soon as there should be water enough; at
present they were arrested by the shallows. The white men, according
to our informer, were French like ourselves.
The armed men have now increased to five hundred, and the white
officers to eight, who are waiting for the rising of the river. Really
these rumours were beginning to make us anxious. The barges began
to assume in our imaginations the appearance of properly manned
vessels, and we wondered if there really was anything of importance
in the wind. Perhaps a party had been sent out from Timbuktu for
Say to make sure that we had plenty of provisions, perhaps even to
found a permanent post at the latter place. It would be good policy,
but bearing in mind the temper of the natives, the probability was
that we should not know anything for certain till we actually saw
the French flag at the bend of the river, unless of course Madidu
should inform us officially beforehand.
Suppose, however, that a French party had followed us, would they
be able to pass? It would indeed be a bold thing to attempt to
pass the rapids as we had done, aided as we were by the natives,
and with such a skilful captain as Digui, who was used to coolies
and knew how to manage them.
_May 17._—The river is still falling, and above our island a
little sand-bank is now laid bare, where we were able to leave
the _Davoust_ for the repairs the damage done to her at Labezanga
rendered necessary. Aided by Abdulaye, I undertook the task of
patching her up, and found it a simple affair enough. Fortunately
we had a sheet of aluminium in reserve, one only, it is true, but
it was all we needed. We bent that sheet to the shape required, we
bolted and riveted it all in a few days, and until the water rose
again the _Davoust_ remained high and dry in her dock on the sand.
[Illustration: THE ‘DAVOUST’ IN HER DRY DOCK.]
The sand-bank was very useful to our coolies for bathing from, and
was also turned to account by the women who came to our market for
doing their washing. The deck of the _Davoust_ became the rendezvous
of everybody, and no doubt some strange episodes took place on and
in the stranded vessel. The flesh is weak, and it was perhaps as
well that the chaplain of the mission and his aide-de-camp, Baudry,
who had charge of the police department, did not inquire too closely
into what went on in the siesta hour.
_May 18._—No storm at Fort Archinard, though it is pouring with
rain all round. One would really suppose that we had a _grisgris_
or a fetich which enabled us to control the elements.
Three men came from Galadio to ask us to send him the treaty already
alluded to. We gave them two copies of it, one of which was to
be returned to us after being signed by Ibrahim if he approved
of it. This treaty was a league of friendship between the French
and him, agreeing to give mutual aid and protection throughout the
whole of the districts subject to him or to the French to all who
came in peace, whether as travellers or traders, whether actually
the subjects, or only aliens under the protection of either of the
contracting parties. Under all circumstances, in fact, and by every
means in their power, Galadio and the French agreed to assist each
other. Both would do their very utmost to make the road between
Uro Galadio and Massina safe. Lastly, Ibrahim promised to make no
agreement with any other European without having first consulted
the French resident at Bandiagara.
Later the duplicate of this convention came back to us signed in
beautifully clear and firm Arabic writing, after having been read
and discussed at a general meeting of native notables. This valuable
treaty had not been obtained by lavish presents, for we had already
begun to practise economy, in view of the probable heavy expenses
of the return journey, and we had warned Ibrahim that he must not
expect costly gifts.
The convention was simple, direct, and easy to be understood by
all. It was in my opinion the most complete treaty which could
possibly be drawn up in these parts, and after its signature we had a
right to rely upon the absolute good faith of the other party to the
contract, and to consider him our friend and our ally. You will see
presently how much it was worth, and judge from that of the value of
all treaties with negro chiefs, especially of those left with them,
the contents of which have never been explained.
Another great piece of news! A Messiah has risen up, by name Bokar
Ahmidu Collado, who is winning converts on the Liptako to the west
of our encampment, between Say and Bandiagara. He has already had
considerable success, and has received investiture from Sokoto with
a banner, giving him the right to make war on the French. He went
to Amadu Cheiku to ask for reinforcements, but that chief only gave
him his blessing in a very frigid manner, saying, “Believe me,
the time will come, but it is not yet come, for driving the white
men from the Sudan, the land of our fathers. There is a country in
the East bounded by a big creek (the Tchad?), and they must spread
there first. As for me, I know the French too well to care to rub
shoulders with them.”
Bokar Ahmidu Collado then went to Niugui, chief of the Cheibatan
Tuaregs, and asked him to give him some men, but Niugui said to him,
“Madidu will make war on me if I help against his friends the
French.” “You have no faith,” answered the Messiah; “I will
make you believe,” and he gave him a consecrated drink. Then they
say Niugui saw, in the air above him, crowds of combatants armed
with rifles and swords, with many mounted men, all following the
Messiah and the triumphant Crescent. He still hesitates, however,
on account of his salutary fear of Madidu.
Bokar Ahmidu Collado comes from a village of Farimaké, near
Tioko. One of Galadio’s people from Wagniaka (Massina) knew him
when he was quite young. “A poor fool that Collado,” he said
to us, “who has not even been to Mecca, yet sets up for being a
Messiah!” Moral: No man is a prophet in his own country.
Something special seemed to be going on all through the latter part
of May; all manner of news pouring in, some of it really seeming
very likely to be true. The barges at Ansongo constantly increased
in number. The Toucouleur chief Koly Mody was about to abandon the
cause of Amadu. Diafara, a man from Kunari, which had remained true
to Agibu, was on the west of our camp to levy tribute in Hombari, to
found a post at Dori, or to lead a very strong force of French and
their allies into the district of Mossi. The people of Bussuma had
been defeated and driven away, they had taken refuge at Wagadugu,
which last-named rumour seemed to us most likely to be true,
for it behoved the French Sudan to avenge the injury inflicted
on French troops the previous year by the so-called _Naba_ of the
_Nabas_. What, however, were we to think of all the contradictory
rumours which sprung up like mushrooms and grew like snowballs,
to melt away almost as quickly as they took shape?
_May 20._—A new visitor to-day, original if nothing more. Like
every one else, he has his budget of news, and told us about the
French column which is to operate in Mossi. We are beginning to
attach very little importance to all this gossip. Our guest is a
heathen, or, as Suleyman translates it, a Christian, explaining
that he must be a co-religionist of ours, in that he has customs
peculiar to the Christians—drinks _dolo_ and gets drunk on it,
of which he is very proud. He therefore belongs to our family,
and that is why he has come to see his big brother, the commandant!
He calls himself a sorcerer, and seems a little off his head. Anyhow
he talks great nonsense. Whilst we were questioning him he kept
fingering a little goat-skin bag, out of which, when we were quite
weary of his stupid replies, he drew a small phial full of oil of
pimento, and a number of tiny little pots—the whole paraphernalia
of magic, in fact. Having set out all these odds and ends on the
ground, he proceeded to make some _grisgris_ to protect the hut in
which he was from bullets.
He began by smoothing the sand of the floor with his hand, to bring
good-fortune, he said, and he then skilfully drew with his finger
in the sand four parallel lines forming parallelograms. These
he combined two by two, three by three, four by four, and so on,
reciting invocations all the time. He then rubbed all the first
designs out and began again with fresh invocations, making the lines
sometimes vertical, sometimes of other shapes.
[Illustration: TYPICAL MARKET WOMEN.]
With a very solemn face, as if he were celebrating mass, he now drew
forth a little satchel of ancient paper, written all over in Arabic by
some marabout, and muttered some words, evidently learnt by heart, for
he certainly could not read. At last, with an expression as serious
as that of the Sphinx of the desert, he announced: “Hitherto you
have had none but enemies in the land, no one in the whole country
is your friend. Beware of the marabouts! Beware, above all, of one
particular marabout! There is a young man ill here (this was Bluzet,
who was just then lying down with an attack of fever), but it will
not be much. You must sacrifice a white chicken for his recovery;
have it broiled, and give it to the poor: this will conciliate the
favour of the great prophet Nabi Mussa, or Moses. It will be best to
give your charity to children. Then all the _grisgris_ of the negroes
and the marabouts will avail nothing against you. But beware, above
all, on account of your men. If you cut away all the roots of a tree
it falls. In the same way, if they take away your negroes, all will
be over with you. Now I have come to give you a _grisgris_ for them,
which will protect them from all spells, and even from _cortés_
and other evils. I can even give you a _corté_ myself, which will
kill a man if you only throw the tiniest bit of it in his face.”
The _corté_ is, in fact, the most terrible of all spells amongst
the negroes. It is said to consist of a powder which slays from a
distance. The natives say that if thrown from some miles off the
man it touches dies, and the truth seems to be, that the sorcerers
have the secret of a very subtle poison, which produces terrible
disorders in those touched by it.
As a matter of course, we did not accept the offers of a _corté_ or
counter _corté_ from Djula, but to give him an idea of the mischief
we could do if we chose, I gave him a five-franc piece in a bowl of
galvanized water, as I had the son of the chief of the Kel Temulai. I
then told him to go to Mossi and have a look round there to see what
would happen. He is a crazy old fellow enough, but I have been told
that sorcerers have more influence over the Mossi and their _nabas_,
as they call their chiefs, than those who are in the full possession
of their senses. He was willing to go, and when the Tabaski was over
he would come back _inch Allah_, with envoys from Bilinga or Wagadugu.
Now Bilinga is eleven days’ march from Say, and eight days after
he left us the old fellow came back pretending he had gone all the
way. He had really never gone beyond Say, and brought us all sorts
of silly news only, so Digui took him by the shoulders and quite
gently turned him out of the camp.
_May 20._—As the so-called Tabaski fête approached, our visitors
and the news they brought were greatly on the increase. Pullo, Osman,
and the minor ambassadors vied with each other in the ingenuity of
their inventions. The fact was, they all wanted to have new _bubus_
for the festive occasion, some money, some coppers to buy kola nuts,
etc., not to speak of new bright-coloured undergarments for their
wives. “What would the village people say, commandant,” they
would urge, “if I, who every one knows to be a friend of the French,
should cut anything but a good figure?”
[Illustration: THE MARKET AT FORT ARCHINARD.]
Some few, however, were actuated by something more than a wish
for presents on their visits to us. They were rather afraid of the
column which was said to be operating in Mossi. Osman brought the
chief trader of the market to us, a Wagobé, belonging therefore
to the Sarracolais tribe, an intelligent man with a frank, open
expression. His pretext for coming to see us was that he had a slave
to sell, but he knew well enough that we never bought slaves. She had
been brought from Samory’s camp, where prices for such merchandise
were very low, there being a perfect glut of slaves in the market,
and at the same time a scarcity of grain. The young girl, who was
in good health, with all her teeth intact, had been bought for the
modest sum of 10,000 cowries, about 10 francs, or the value of two
sheep, or of a sack of millet. According to her owner, prices were
much higher at Say, where a first-class female slave, that is to say,
a young virgin, would fetch 200,000 cowries, whilst a strong young
man was worth 150,000. Less valuable captives were cheaper, and some
of the fifth-class went for as little as 100,000 cowries. These are
of course commercial quotations, but as a matter of fact now and
then a few are sold for as low a sum as 25,000 cowries.
The chief of the market brought us kola nuts, honey, rice, and
milk. He mourned over the evil days which had fallen on Say. “All
our roads,” he said, “are blocked on the north by the Tuaregs,
on the west by the heathen Mossi, on the south by the Dendi, and
on the east by the Kebbi and the Mauri. It is only rarely that a
few caravans with a strong escort can get as far as Sansan Haussa,
by way of Sergoe. A whole fleet of canoes, which went down to Yauri
last year, had remained there for fear of the Dendikobés. The boatmen
had founded a village there, and were now lost to Say. Then, besides
that, things were not going as could be wished by those of the true
faith. The Empire of Sokoto and its Emir were between two fires,
with Rabba on one side and the Serki Kebbi on the other.”
When Osman, returning to the charge, spoke to us again about the
column supposed to have gone to Mossi, I said to him—“You see,
the Naba of Wagadugu gave the same kind of reception to the Frenchmen
who went to visit him last year as Amadu Saturu has given to us at
Say. So the chief of the whites has given orders that his village
should be destroyed, and it will be your turn next year, I hope.”
[Illustration: A WOMAN OF SAY.]
They then went away plunged in reflection.
Visitors are all the fashion just now. On Thursday, May 21, a young
man came to our market wearing a blue _bubu_ trimmed with blue and
red printed calico, such as is made at Rouen. We had long known the
owner of this costume, and when we recognized him we were ready to
fling ourselves into his arms.
He at least was a genuine person, the son of the chief of Fafa, who
had been such a good guide to us when we were amongst the rapids, the
son of that old Fulah who wished to interpose his own body between me
and Djamarata to protect me from harm. He came from Djamarata now,
and we had no reason to doubt his good faith at least. He came,
he said, to inquire after the health of the commandant, and to ask
what state our boats were in after passing over the terrible rocks,
etc. Djamarata assured us of his friendship. True, when we first
arrived in his country the Tuaregs had been on their guard, but
now that they were convinced of our pacific intentions, and saw
that we molested no one, the Awellimiden were quite on our side,
and had full confidence in us.
When our friend left us his goat-skin bag was full of presents. Here
at least was one native who deserved well of us, for he had made a
twenty days’ march to come and give us his master’s compliments.
_May 24, Whitsunday._—It appears that the Mossi column is making
good progress, at least we gather that it is, from the improved
bearing towards us of the natives, but lies and all manner of false
reports are still the order of the day.
Yesterday the fête of the Tabaski, or the Feast of the Sheep,
was celebrated, which is not, it appears, of Mahommedan origin. The
village of Talibia sent envoys to make friends in our camp, and some
wretched-looking natives danced a _tam-tam_. Others came to beg,
and to all the poor creatures we gave something—a little salt,
a mechanical toy, a cubit of cloth, or some other trifles. I also
distributed a little money amongst our own men.
A regular descent was made on the camp by sellers of kola nuts,
_grisgris_, etc. A number of women also came, amongst whom was a
Toucouleur girl named Fanta. She said she had come to see if her
brother was with us, but I suspect her motives were not quite so
innocent as that. In the end, this girl became a dangerous enemy to
us. After warning her off again and again, we at last had literally
to drive her out of the camp. If we had not done so I expect she
would have persuaded some of our men to desert, so great was her
influence over them.
[Illustration: ENVOYS FROM THE CHIEF OF KIBTACHI.]
Fanta was really a very reckless person, and is supposed to have
poisoned a man whom she had persuaded to treason, but who had failed
to achieve the result she had hoped by that treason. The native chiefs
know only too well how easy it is to seduce men from their allegiance
to travellers with the aid of some pretty fellow-countrywoman of
theirs, and it is necessary to be always on guard against this sort
of thing.
In the present case the Tabaski fête passed over quietly
enough. We regaled our visitors with a little apparently impromptu
fusillade, which we had really agreed upon beforehand amongst
ourselves, giving the Koyraberos from Talibia a demonstration
of the penetrating force of our bullets on the branches of some
trees. “_Bissimilaye! Bissimilaye!_” cried old Suleyman Foutanké,
hardly able to believe his own eyes.
_June._—No rain at Say yet! It really looks as if we had cast
a spell upon the place, the more so that the want of rain was
accompanied by a plague of locusts. We had invoked the aid of
Moses against our enemies, and now, like him, I had brought upon
the natives of the land of our exile clouds of locusts to devour
all green things. The people were in despair. A drought and locusts
together meant perhaps the complete destruction of the harvest. But
there is always some good in everything, and the Koyraberos flung
themselves, armed with sticks, into the thickest part of the swarms,
beating down the insects, which were picked up by the children,
and stowed away in their _bubus_. Fried and seasoned, the locusts
made a very appetizing change of diet.
Our men from Senegal, however, made great fun of those who ate them;
they were themselves much too civilized for such food as that. “The
Koyraberos,” Digui said to me, “are regular savages!” and it
was worth something to hear the tone of contempt in which he gave
utterance to this insulting remark.
The chief of Kibtachi, a big Haussa village down-stream, sent us
various presents and made many promises to us. He also begged us
most politely to visit him when we passed later. “Why,” he said,
“did you not come to Kibtachi to begin with, instead of stopping
with Saturu, who wishes you no good?” Talking of presents, Galadio,
when he returned the signed treaty, sent a wonderful collection of
gifts, including kola nuts, symbolic of friendship, with calabashes
full of honey, and bags of baobab flour, the medicinal effect of
the two being totally different, the honey acting as an emollient,
the flour as an irritant.
The chiefs of the Sidibés, Kurteyes, Sillabés, etc., all vied with
each other now in sending messengers to us to assure us of their
friendship, and yet another notable, chief of the Torodi Fulahs,
asked us to make just such a treaty with him as we had with his friend
Galadio. “Galadio and I,” he wrote to us, “are together like
two teeth of the same comb!” A happy metaphor indeed, a regular
literary gem!
Yes, indeed, they all belonged to the same comb, these native friends
of ours, and as yet we did not suspect how very dirty that comb was.
Presently we heard of a split amongst the Toucouleurs, and that the
Gaberos had had enough of Amadu. They sent, in fact, to beg me to
intercede for them with my friend Madidu, and to get him to let them
return to his country. There were more fresh quarrels too between
the Toucouleurs and the Sidibés. Amadu had put a Hadji marabout
of the Sidibé tribe in irons, and by way of reprisal the Sidibés
had seized three Toucouleurs at Yuli, opposite Dunga. The hostile
tribes were, in fact, snarling at each other from the two banks
of the river, and showing their teeth rather like porcelain dogs,
only in this case the dogs were jet black.
The Sidibés, according to Pullo Khalifa and the son of their chief,
who came to us with him, were disposed to throw themselves upon our
protection. If, they said, Amadu had not set their Hadji free in
three days, the Sidibé women with their flocks and herds would be
placed under the protection of our guns!
Would this be the spark which would set fire to the gun-powder?
Hurrah! If it were, our protectorate would become an effective one;
we should have a fine _rôle_ to play; that of intervening in favour
of a native coalition against the parasitical Toucouleurs, the
hereditary enemies of French influence in Africa.
[Illustration: A COBBLER OF MOSSI.]
All, then, was tending in the direction of our hopes. A good job
too, for the river was falling, falling, falling. Our island was
completely transformed, for a big isthmus of sand and flints now
united it to the right bank. Hundreds of determined men, or of
men driven in from behind, might pour into the camp any night now,
as into some popular fair.
Reassured though we were by what we heard of the political condition
of the country, and by all these protestations of friendship, we yet
awaited the 14th July with impatience, and we celebrated its passing
as joyfully as possible when it came at last. No sooner was it over,
however, when slowly and quietly, and at first very doubtfully,
certain bad news filtered through, which gradually gained certainty.
For once, indeed, there was no doubt about the evil tidings, which
were diametrically opposed to all that the politeness of the natives
would have had us believe. The whole country, Toucouleurs, people
of Say, of Kibtachi, and of Torodi, with the Sidibés, the Gaberos
and others, had combined against us and were marching to attack us.
Naturally no one had thought fit to warn us. It was Osman, poor
fellow, who, in spite of himself, put us on the scent, and gave
us the alarm. He meant to play the part of an angel of light, but,
as is often the case, his _rôle_ was really quite the reverse.
One fine day he said to us point-blank, “There is no cause for
anxiety now, you can sleep with both ears shut, for Amadu Saturu
and Amadu Cheiku are both most favourably disposed towards you.”
“Why do you tell us that, Osman?” I asked. “I feel sure you
have some very good reason, but take care what you say. You are lying,
I know. Amadu is really trying to pick a quarrel with us.”
“_Bissimilaye!_ not a bit of it,” was the reply. “He is only
getting his column together to move against Djermakoy.”
I had never been told a word about that expedition, and the fact
seemed strange, so I said—
“Osman! you are telling a lie. What column is going against
Djermakoy?”
Then with much hesitation, and turning as pale as a negro can when
he has got himself into a hobble, he began to tell us how all the
people of Say, and the Toucouleurs, in fact, all the natives, had
united to march on Dentchendu, a big village of Djerma, the very
centre of the Futanké agitation, but that before actually starting
they were all coming to Say to receive the benediction of Saturu,
who would recite the Fatiha to the glory of the Prophet on the tomb
of his ancestor, Mohammed Djebbo, who had founded the town.
[Illustration: FORT ARCHINARD.]
I understood at once, and really the plan to surprise us had not
been at all badly thought out. “Well, Osman,” I said, “you will
warn Modido that if the Toucouleur column camps in or near his
village, in which he declined to receive us, it will mean war with
us.” “Oh!” cried Osman in his dismay, “the whole column will not
come, only the chiefs, with Ahmidu Ahmadu, the leader of the
troops.”
Then he tried to undo what he had done, and told quite a different
story, saying he had been mistaken; Saturu would go and give the
benediction to the column on the bank near Djerma.
We were warned now; a big column really was assembled. We made
discreet inquiries on every side, and all the news we heard confirmed
the fact. Pullo himself now ventured to be explicit, and told us to
be on our guard.
The palm of deception and treason must be given in this case to
a Fulah from Massina, called Ahmadu Mumi, but we were the ones to
reap the benefit of his evil-doing. Born in the village of Mumi,
near Mopti, on the Niger, all his people had been killed by the
Toucouleurs when El Hadj Omar won his great victory. He himself had
been taken prisoner, and dragged behind the horses of his captors to
Say, where, bruised, bleeding, and in rags, he was sold. Of course,
as a natural consequence, he hated the Toucouleurs with an intense
and bitter hatred, but he was later bought by the chief of Say, who
set him free. He became the confidant and friend of his liberator,
so that, as he explained to us, he knew better than any one else
what was going on, and was therefore better able to betray Saturu.
He did betray him too, for a high price, revealing to us all the
preparations our enemies were making against us. Amadu, it appeared,
aided by the chief of Say, had rallied every one all round to his
standard, and to win over the lukewarm, vague hints were thrown
out of going to get slaves amongst the Djermas on the left and the
Gurmas on the right bank of the river. All would meet at Say for the
benediction, and then at the critical moment, Madidu, pretending to be
suddenly supernaturally inspired, would exclaim—“Listen! what says
the prophet? Leave the Gurmas and the Djermas alone. It is against
the infidels, the Kaffirs of Talibia, that you must march. It is
their destruction which will please God!” Then every one would be
carried away by enthusiasm, and urging each other on, would rush in
their fanatical zeal to the attack of our little island.
[Illustration: A MARKET WOMAN.]
None but the chiefs knew of the plot, Ahmadu Mumi told us, but he
had been so placed that he could tell what they were all thinking
of. Double traitor that he was, he used to go backwards and forwards
from Say to Dunga, and from Dunga to Fort Archinard, spying and
taking bribes now from one side, now from the other. When with us
he would say all he wanted was revenge on the Toucouleurs.
Well, we merely said “All right!” and set to work with feverish
activity to double our abattis, which the tornados had somewhat
damaged, and to build new loopholed redoubts round the camp. On July
14 we were all eagerly engaged in preparing for the defence of our
fort, and I don’t suppose any one gave a thought to the review at
Longchamps, or to the public balls going on in Paris at this festive
time. As in all crises and times of difficulties, our coolies rose
to the occasion, and showed themselves more full of zeal, better
disciplined, more thoroughly in hand under their French officers
than they had ever done before, so that when we saw the smoke from
the camp of the allies rising up above Say, we were all perfectly
ready for the attack.
Ready to make the besiegers pay dearly for their temerity at least,
but it would not do to count upon all of us coming safe and sound out
of the affair: the forces were too terribly unequal for that. Amadu
had five hundred guns with him, and the Toucouleurs are brave,
especially when their fanaticism has been aroused. A certain number of
the captives taken by the Tuaregs had also come from Sorgoe to join
hands with them. Aliburi, too, the hero of Cayor of Yuri memory,
was there, and in a night attack all these auxiliaries would be
very formidable adversaries to us. We wondered how many warriors
there were altogether, including those armed with bows and arrows
or spears only. It was very difficult to form an idea, for negroes
never allow their numbers to be counted when they go to war. They
think it brings bad luck. There was, however, no doubt that at this
time Amadu could muster from ten to fifteen hundred combatants.
And to oppose to all this rabble, we were but forty-five, even if
we counted in our scullions.
The worst of it was, a good many of our cartridges had got damaged,
partly by the great heat and partly by the damp. The damage was such
that at the first shot the weapon might become useless for the rest
of the fight, a serious matter when we were so few.
It certainly seemed as if we were in for it at last!
Several nights passed by in suspense, and we all slept badly. On the
north we could see the gleam of many moving torches in the forest,
for from Talibia to Say signals were being made. Torches of straw
were lit and put out three by three, but what these signals portended
we could not tell.
_July 17._—It seems that the attack on our camp is now decided upon,
for our spy tells us we shall be assailed from the right bank in the
night when there is no moon. The Toucouleurs are camped at Tillé
above Say. At the benediction to be given at three o’clock Amadu
Saturu will stir up the people. We might expect the first alarm at
about ten o’clock. Ahmadu Mumi spoke very positively, though he
explained that he could not be absolutely certain, and anyhow not a
woman had come to the market that morning. Osman, on the other hand,
stoutly denied the report, but this only made us more sure of its
truth, and we doubled our sentries in preparation for a night which
might perhaps be our last.
[Illustration: A FULAH WOMAN.]
We waited and waited, but nothing happened. We heard nothing that
night, as on so many others, but the howling of the monkeys and the
murmuring of the rapids down-stream.
Everything remained quiet the next day too, and gradually
all the smoke faded away, whilst the light of the torches was
extinguished. The women, who had deserted our market, returned as
if there had never been any reason for their absence, and all went
on as before. We knew now that the column was again dispersed, the
warriors had drawn back at the very last moment, and had gone off in
small parties to take slaves in Djerma, or to attack Dosso. All the
energy they had displayed with regard to us had been simply wasted.
It had been enough for us to assume a firm attitude, and for the
natives to know that we had been warned. To maintain a firm attitude
seems rather like a quotation from Tartarin de Tarascon, for we should
have found it difficult enough to defend ourselves. How should I
have been able to make good my threats that I would burn Say on the
first alarm?
It seemed, however, that Saturu really was rather alarmed, lest harm
should happen to his town. He would not let the column camped near it
enter Say, and the Friday benediction was only after all pronounced
on the chiefs. Their secret they knew had leaked out, they had seen
us strengthen our defences, and they hesitated after all to attack
us. The knowledge of the bloodshed which would inevitably ensue had
greatly cooled the enthusiasm of all not quite mad with fanaticism,
and many whose adherence had been counted on as certain had failed
to put in an appearance. Then the rain had something to do with
damping the ardour for war. The daily storms, which had come at
last, completed the demoralization of the rabble. They had missed
their aim, because we, who were that aim, had been on our guard,
and some went off one way, others another, to hunt slaves instead
of rushing upon our defences.
We had had a narrow escape, but it was a complete one, for the new
moon was rising now, and the river was rapidly increasing in depth,
adding each day to the efficiency as a defence of the ditch which
divided us from the mainland and our enemies.
We were saved! but for a whole week we had been face to face with
the melancholy prospect of ending our lives on this remote island,
and often and often as we watched we wondered whether, if we were
massacred, we should be better or more quickly avenged than our
predecessor Flatters had been.
We now understood all the false rumours which had been spread of
French columns marching in the neighbourhood, and of all these
columns were going to do. The reports were spread merely to induce
us to leave our _tata_, where we were in comparative security, and
which the Toucouleurs seemed to look upon as impregnable. Our enemies
wanted to decoy us to go and meet our comrades, so that they might
fall on us in the bush, where the odds would have been against us,
and so destroy us altogether.
Then when they saw how we took the rumours, we heard they changed
their tactics, and tried to throw us off our guard again by talking
about making friends, signing treaties, and so on, meaning, if they
could secure our confidence, to fall suddenly upon us _en masse_. The
plan was ingenious certainly, but those who concocted it had reckoned
without allowing for Osman’s stupidity.
What became of the Toucouleur column after all? Not having dared
through fear of our guns to march against us, it had turned its
attention to Dentchendu, a big village on the left bank; but the
chief hesitated too long in this case also, giving time for the
inhabitants to receive warning, to put their village in a state of
defence, and send all the useless mouths away.
Again the Toucouleurs were too late, and besides, as Osman, who
still visited us in spite of all our rebuffs, told us, the poison
of the Dentchendu arrows is very dangerous.
All these warriors are fond of fighting and going on slave raids,
for the glory of the Prophet, but they take very good care of their
own skins. We wondered if the Toucouleurs who remained faithful to
Amadu would become cowards like his own people through contact with
them. Our experiences made us think that we were indeed far from the
heroic days, when the Senegalese Foutankés, in the battle of Kale,
charged a column on the march to rescue the wives of Ahmadu who had
been taken prisoners, stopping suddenly beneath a hail of bullets
from the French sharp-shooters to prostrate themselves, and make a
propitiatory salaam.
Having through fear abandoned the idea of attacking us at Fort
Archinard, the column wandered in the rain from village to village,
and was received everywhere with apparent friendship by the terrified
inhabitants, so that all the fire ended in smoke, though no one
seemed to know exactly why.
[Illustration: LAUNCHING OF THE ‘AUBE’ AT SAY.]
The check the Toucouleurs had received made it possible for some
of the chiefs to show us sympathy, whether feigned or real it was
impossible to tell. Amongst these was Hamma Tansa, chief of the
Sillabés, who was rather an original character for a native. He was
something of an epicure, what we should call a jolly good fellow, but
charitable to others. He kept open house, or rather hut, and always
had a lot of friends about him, whom he treated to everything. When
he was informed that the meal was served, he used to jump up, flap
his white _bubu_ as he would wings, and shout, “Let’s fall to!”
He was literary too, and the missives he sent us, written on little
plaques of wood, were, in accordance with Arab usage, very polite, and
sometimes even in verse. He said he meant to pay us a visit, was most
anxious to do so in fact, but somehow he never fulfilled his promise:
either he had not time, or he was afraid of Amadu, or something else.
One fine day our old friend Hugo appeared again, sent to us by
the chief of the Kurteyes, and who, thanks to Taburet’s skill,
had now quite recovered from the affection of the eyes from which
he had been suffering. He sent us a message to the effect that,
as long as the river was low, he and his people were afraid of the
Toucouleurs; “but wait,” he added, “till it rises, for then
the Kurteyes are the kings of the Niger; no one can get at us,
and we shall be able to shake hands with you.”
The most devoted and zealous of all our friends, however, was Galadio,
and there was a perpetual going and coming between his village and
our camp. Marabouts, griots, traders, etc., were constantly arriving,
telling us, “I am from Galadio’s village,” and we received them,
from motives of policy, with open arms, buying from them rather than
from others, giving them presents, and plenty of kind words. They
all sang the praises of their master, and he really did show himself
to us in a very amiable light. He was perhaps if anything rather
too gushing.
At my request he sent us the female blacksmith of Bokar Wandieïdiu,
to whom I have already alluded, to help us to complete our Tuareg
vocabulary. She was accompanied by a marabout named Tayoro, a Fulah
from Wagnaka in Massina, a very distinguished and refined-looking old
man, with a white beard, who came from Konnari in the same district,
and whose name was Modibo Konna.
[Illustration: TAYORO AND MODIBO KONNA.]
He spoke _bozo_, or the dialect of the Niger fishermen near Mopti,
and this enabled Baudry to draw up an elementary vocabulary of
that language.
This lady blacksmith, with Tayoro and Modibo Konna, were our guests
for some days, and we were really quite fascinated by their manners,
and the way in which they behaved to us. We had certainly not been
accustomed to meet with tact such as theirs amongst the natives,
and they finally removed all my prejudices against their master
Galadio. So I sent to ask him whether, as he was too old to visit me,
I should go to see him, for were we not friends like two fingers
on one hand, or, to use the native simile, like two teeth of one
comb? If he would see me, when should I come?
It would only take me three days to go, I reflected, and it was of
importance for us to let the whole country see that Galadio was our
friend, and that when we broke up our camp we should leave behind
us an ally devoted to our interests, in fact so compromised that he
must remain true to us. It would be very important to us to have
such a helper when it came to the organization of the district,
and he might be made its ruler as a protected native chief.
My messengers returned a few days later, bringing horses with them
for me to make the journey, and assuring me that their master would
be delighted to receive me.
While waiting for the envoys to come back, we worked very hard at
our vocabularies. All went well with them, and we completed them
in a few days. Between whiles Tayoro turned our knowledge of his
dialect to account, by telling me the following charming story about
the time of the Fulah reformation in Sokoto.
When the great reformer, Othman Fodio, who, by the way, was a noted
robber and slave-hunter, preached the so-called reformation, that
is to say, the revolt against the chief of the Haussa Fulahs, he
was followed by a great many disciples, as of course all prophets are.
One evening when Othman was preaching and expounding the truth, his
eyes suddenly fell upon a venerable-looking old man who was sobbing.
“Look!” cried the reformer, “look at that old man weeping;
follow his example, for Allah has touched his heart.”
Then the poor old fellow, the tears still rolling down his cheeks,
said in a choked and broken voice, “No, Modibo, no, you have
read my heart wrongly; when I saw you holding forth so vehemently,
and shaking your grey beard, you reminded me of my old goat which I
left at home in my hut to follow you. That is what made me sob,”
and he went on weeping.
[Illustration: A YOUNG GIRL AT FORT ARCHINARD.]
This anecdote, which loses much of its piquancy in translation,
is very typical of the character of the nomad Fulahs, illustrating
as it does their combined fanaticism and self-interest.
As I have said, we were all quite won over by the behaviour of
Tayoro and Modibo Konna, when one fine evening, after the lesson
in Tuareg was over, Suleyman the interpreter came to seek me, and
said point-blank: “Commandant, all these people are only making
game of you. Tierno Abdulaye, the Arabic translator, who is a
mischievous fellow, saw that old Modibo Konna is an old gossip who
can’t keep a secret, and as he wanted to know all about Galadio
and the rest of them, he said to him, ‘What, will you Modibos,
good Mussulmans, true believers, take part against Amadu, against
the son of El Hadji Omar?—and your chief Galadio, is he likely
to take the side of the French? I, Tierno Abdulaye, am with them
because I can’t help myself, but my heart is with the Toucouleurs,
my fellow-countrymen. If it came to a fight, I should be the first
to desert. True Mussulmans could not really consort with Kaffirs!’
“‘All in good time!’ answered Modibo Konna. ‘At least I shall find
somebody to talk to, meanwhile. Do you really suppose that we were
ever, in good faith, the allies of the commandant? Why, Galadio is
Amadu’s best friend; he it was who helped him to reach the left
bank. Tayoro and I are only here as spies, to prevent the French
from doing harm, such as attacking Dunga or Say. As soon as you
arrived Ibrahim realized that it would be best to seem friendly with
you. He even reproached Amadu Saturu for refusing your hospitality,
because they would have been able to keep an eye on you better at
Say. By adopting this attitude towards you, we have got presents,
Kaffirs are always lawful prey, whilst the rest of the natives have
got nothing. As for me, Modibo Konna, I was recalled from Dunga,
where I was looking after Ibrahim’s affairs and sent here. When I
go back I shall return to Dunga to report all I have seen. Do you
suppose for one moment that a marabout such as Ibrahim would ever
be false to the true religion?’”
The whole secret of the plot against us was now revealed. Galadio,
distrusting the old gossip, had merely sent Tayoro, the clever
diplomatist, with him to see that he did not talk nonsense. For four
whole months they had all been fooling us, with very considerable
address, it must be admitted. However, the duplicity with which
we had been treated all this time had one good result—we had had
the pleasure of imagining that we had at least one good friend in
the country on whom we could rely, and this thought had been good
for the morale of our men, for it is not at all inspiriting to feel
completely isolated in a strange land. Even if it is all a delusion,
it is consoling to fancy oneself liked and respected.
The end of it all might however have been very different. Horses had
been sent for me to go to Galadio’s camp, and if I had started,
accompanied by Father Hacquart and a few men, we might have been
murdered by the way. Maybe Galadio would have been afraid of immediate
reprisals; maybe he would have hesitated to commit a crime which
would have compromised him for the future; or perhaps, even he was,
after all, too good a fellow to injure those who were coming to him
as guests.
This was the last scene of the comedy in which we took part at Fort
Archinard. We had now to begin to think seriously of starting again,
as we had already long before announced that we should go on September
15. We had bought our stores of grain, and our barges were once more
in a state of repair. The information we had received about the river
was to the effect that it was now navigable again. We were all busy
repacking our stuffs and knick-knacks, and were eager to be off.
Taburet was simply boiling over with impatience, and was already
inquiring what steamboat we could catch at Dahomey, and wondering
by what train he could go to Conquet. The rest of us, though we did
not say so much about it, were just as anxious for the start, the
more so that a kind of wave of fever was passing over our island,
attacking the negroes, who had not always taken the preventive
doses of quinine, more than us. Baudry, what with the repair of
the barges, the buying up stores in the market, and the repacking,
was quite worn out. It was really time we broke up our camp.
On September 15 everything on board was once more ship-shape. Digui
had gone to reconnoitre our route the evening before, and had come
back very late, looking anxious. “It is very bad,” he said, “but
we shall get past somehow.” The coolies, weary as they all were,
could not contain their joy at the idea of leaving the Fort, and poor
old Suleyman Futanke, who was no doubt afraid of being given back to
Amadu, or left behind as useless, made desperate efforts to learn to
row. Happiest of all, perhaps, was Atchino, the man from Dahomey, who
had spent the whole day before packing tomatoes for us to eat on the
journey, and who was dreaming all the time of the bananas of his home.
In the morning, Abdulaye cut a great piece of bark out of a fig
tree, and on the plain surface beneath, he engraved with a chisel
the letters M. H. D. N. 1896. He then nailed firmly on to the same
tree a plank, on which was written in large characters the name of
Fort Archinard, for the benefit of those who should come after us.
At the eastern corner of our _tata_, looking down-stream, we dug a
deep hole, in which we buried all our old iron, with the nails and
poles we no longer needed, and which would only have encumbered
us. They may perhaps be useful to others who may halt on our
island. We levelled the soil above them and so left them. We were
fortunate indeed that no other cemetery was needed at Fort Archinard,
and were most grateful for the mercy of Heaven, which had preserved
us all for so long.
We did not wish the natives who had treated us so badly to profit
at all by our leavings, so we made a big bonfire of our tables,
chairs, doors, etc., in fact of everything that would burn. The
coolies and we whites all worked with a will at making the pile,
and we set light to the whole at once—camp mattresses, abattis,
etc. etc.—with torches of straw, and a grand blaze they made;
the crackling of the dry wood and the occasional blowing up of the
powder in the cartridges could be heard a long way off.
The coolies meanwhile, like so many black devils, danced round the
fire beating their tam-tams, each performing the figures peculiar
to his tribe, whilst Suleyman alone looked thoughtfully on, and we
watched, not without a certain _serrement de cœur_, the burning
of what had been Fort Archinard, that remote islet in the land of
the negroes where for five long months we had lived, and hoped,
now buoyed up with illusive joy, now depressed with the knowledge
of how we had been deceived.
Somehow the heart gets attached to these lonely districts, where such
thrilling emotions have been lived through, where real sufferings
and privations have been endured. It is with them as with women,
we often love best those who have given us the most pain.
Fort Archinard burnt gloriously. When the smoke became too dense
and nearly choked us, we embarked on our barges, which were already
launched, and turned back just once more, like Lot’s wife after
leaving Sodom, to gaze at the conflagration.
[Illustration: THE BURNING OF FORT ARCHINARD.]
We were off again with light hearts full of hope, to face new rapids!
[Illustration: A YOUNG KURTEYE.]
[Illustration: NATIVES OF MALALI.]