Farewell to Tippu-Tib—Attacked from both banks—The fat savage takes a
bad shot at me—In the home of the elephants—Insect life—Under
covert—The Lowwa river—A storm on the river—New Year’s Day—Bullets
against spears—“Sennenneh!”—Tempting the female mind—The reward of a
good deed—A river armada: crocodile boats—Betwixt cataracts and
cannibals.
_Dec. 28._—The crisis drew nigh when the 28th of December dawned. A grey
mist hung over the river, so dense that we could not see even the palmy
banks on which Vinya-Njara was situated. It would have been suicidal to
begin our journey on such a gloomy morning. The people appeared as
cheerless and dismal as the foggy day. We cooked our breakfasts in order
to see if, by the time we had fortified the soul by satisfying the
cravings of the stomach, the river and its shores might not have resumed
their usual beautiful outlines, and their striking contrasts of light
and shadow.
Slowly the breeze wafted the dull and heavy mists away until the sun
appeared, and bit by bit the luxuriantly wooded banks rose up solemn and
sad. Finally the grey river was seen, and at 9 A.M. its face gleamed
with the brightness of a mirror.
“Embark, my friends! Let us at once away! and a happy voyage to us.”
The drum and trumpet proclaimed to Tippu-Tib’s expectant ears that we
were ascending the river. In half an hour we were pulling across to the
left bank, and when we reached it a mile above Vinya-Njara we rested on
our oars. The strong brown current soon bore us down within hearing of a
deep and melodious diapason of musical voices chanting the farewell
song. How beautiful it sounded to us as we approached them! The dense
jungle and forests seemed to be penetrated with the vocal notes, and the
river to bear them tenderly towards us. Louder the sad notes swelled on
our ears, full of a pathetic and mournful meaning. With bated breath we
listened to the rich music which spoke to us unmistakably of parting, of
sundered friendship, a long, perhaps eternal farewell. We came in view
of them as, ranged along the bank in picturesque costume, the sons of
Unyamwezi sang their last song. We waved our hands to them. Our hearts
were so full of grief that we could not speak. Steadily the brown flood
bore us by, and fainter and fainter came the notes down the water, till
finally they died away, leaving us all alone in our loneliness.
But, looking up, I saw the gleaming portal to the Unknown: wide open to
us and away down, for miles and miles, the river lay stretched with all
the fascination of its mystery. I stood up and looked at the people. How
few they appeared, to dare the region of fable and darkness! They were
nearly all sobbing. They were leaning forward, bowed, as it seemed, with
grief and heavy hearts.
“Sons of Zanzibar,” I shouted, “the Arabs and the Wanyamwezi are looking
at you. They are now telling one another what brave fellows you are.
Lift up your heads and be men. What is there to fear? All the world is
smiling with joy. Here we are altogether like one family, with hearts
united, all strong with the purpose to reach our homes. See this river;
it is the road to Zanzibar. When saw you a road so wide? When did you
journey along a path like this? Strike your paddles deep, cry out
Bismillah! and let us forward.”
Poor fellows! with what wan smiles they responded to my words! How
feebly they paddled! But the strong flood was itself bearing us along,
and the Vinya-Njara villages were fast receding into distance.
Then I urged my boat’s crew, knowing that thus we should tempt the
canoes to quicker pace. Three or four times Uledi, the coxswain,
gallantly attempted to sing, in order to invite a cheery chorus, but his
voice soon died into such piteous hoarseness that the very ludicrousness
of the tones caused his young friends to smile even in the midst of
their grief.
We knew that the Vinya-Njara district was populous from the numbers of
natives that fought with us by land and water, but we had no conception
that it was so thickly populated as the long row of villages we now saw
indicated. I counted fourteen separate villages, each with its
respective growth of elais palm and banana, and each separated from the
other by thick bush.
Every three or four miles after passing Vinya-Njara, there were small
villages visible on either bank, but we met with no disturbance,
fortunately. At 5 P.M. we made for a small village called Kali-Karero,
and camped there, the natives having retired peacefully. In half an hour
they returned, and the ceremony of brotherhood was entered upon, which
insured a peaceful night. The inhabitants of Rukura, opposite us, also
approached us with confidence, and an interchange of small gifts served
us as a healthy augury for the future.
_Dec. 29._—On the morning of the 29th, accompanied by a couple of
natives in a small fishing-canoe, we descended the river along the left
bank, and, after about four miles, arrived at the confluence of the
Kasuku, a dark-water stream of a hundred yards’ width at the mouth.
Opposite the mouth, at the southern end of Kaimba—a long wooded island
on the right bank, and a little above the confluence—stands the
important village of Kisanga-Sanga.
Below Kaimba Island and its neighbour, the Livingstone assumes a breadth
of 1800 yards. The banks are very populous: the villages of the left
bank comprise the district of Luavala. We thought for some time we
should be permitted to pass by quietly, but soon the great wooden drums,
hollowed out of huge trees, thundered the signal along the river that
there were strangers. In order to lessen all chances of a rupture
between us, we sheered off to the middle of the river, and quietly lay
on our paddles. But from both banks at once, in fierce concert, the
natives, with their heads gaily feathered, and armed with broad black
wooden shields and long spears, dashed out towards us.
Tippu-Tib before our departure had hired to me two young men of
Ukusu—cannibals—as interpreters. These were now instructed to cry out
the word “Sennenneh!” (“Peace!”), and to say that we were friends.
But they would not reply to our greeting, and in a bold peremptory
manner told us to return.
“But we are doing no harm, friends. It is the river that takes us down,
and the river will not stop, or go back.”
“This is our river.”
“Good. Tell it to take us back, and we will go.”
“If you do not go back, we will fight you.”
“No, don’t; we are friends.”
“We don’t want you for our friends; we will eat you.”
But we persisted in talking to them, and as their curiosity was so great
they persisted in listening, and the consequence was that the current
conveyed us near to the right bank; and in such near neighbourhood to
another district, that our discourteous escort had to think of
themselves, and began to skurry hastily up river, leaving us unattacked.
[Illustration: WAR DRUMS OF THE TRIBES OF THE UPPER LIVINGSTONE.]
The villages on the right bank also maintained a tremendous drumming and
blowing of war-horns, and their wild men hurried up with menace towards
us, urging their sharp-prowed canoes so swiftly that they seemed to skim
over the water like flying-fish. Unlike the Luavala villagers, they did
not wait to be addressed, but as soon as they came within fifty or sixty
yards they shot out their spears, crying out, “Meat! meat! Ah! ha! We
shall have plenty of meat! Bo-bo-bo-bo, Bo-bo-bo-bo-o o!”
Undoubtedly these must be relatives of the terrible “Bo-bo-bo’s” above,
we thought, as with one mind we rose to respond to this rabid man-eating
tribe. Anger we had none for them, it seemed to me so absurd to be angry
with people who looked upon one only as an epicure would regard a fat
capon. Sometimes also a faint suspicion came to my mind that this was
all but a part of a hideous dream. Why was it that I should be haunted
with the idea that there were human beings who regarded me and my
friends only in the light of meat? Meat! _We?_ Heavens! what an
atrocious idea!
“Meat! Ah! we shall have meat to day. Meat! meat! meat!”
There was a fat-bodied wretch in a canoe, whom I allowed to crawl within
spear-throw of me; who, while he swayed the spear with a vigour far from
assuring to one who stood within reach of it, leered with such a clever
hideousness of feature that I felt, if only within arm’s length of him,
I could have bestowed upon him a hearty thump on the back, and cried out
applaudingly, “Bravo, old boy! You do it capitally!”
Yet not being able to reach him, I was rapidly being fascinated by him.
The rapid movements of the swaying spear, the steady wide-mouthed grin,
the big square teeth, the head poised on one side with the confident
pose of a practised spear-thrower, the short brow and square face, hair
short and thick. Shall I ever forget him? It appeared to me as if the
spear partook of the same cruel inexorable look as the grinning savage.
Finally, I saw him draw his right arm back, and his body incline
backwards, with still that same grin on his face, and I felt myself
begin to count, one, two, three, four—and _whizz!_ The spear flew over
my back, and hissed as it pierced the water. The spell was broken.
It was only five minutes’ work clearing the river. We picked up several
shields, and I gave orders that all shields should be henceforth
religiously preserved, for the idea had entered my head that they would
answer capitally as bulwarks for our canoes. An hour after this we
passed close to the confluence of the Urindi—a stream 400 yards in width
at the mouth, and deep, with water of a light colour and tolerably
clear.
We continued down river along the right bank, and at 4 P.M. camped in a
dense low jungle, the haunt of the hippopotamus and elephant during the
dry season. When the river is in flood, a much larger tract must be
under water.
The left bank was between seventy and eighty feet high; and a point
bearing from camp north-west was about one hundred and fifty feet high.
The traveller’s first duty in lands infested by lions and leopards, is
to build a safe corral, kraal, or boma, for himself, his oxen, horses,
servants; and in lands infested like Usongora Meno and Kasera—wherein we
now were—by human lions and leopards, the duty became still more
imperative. We drew our canoes, therefore, half-way upon the banks, and
our camp was in the midst of an impenetrable jungle.
On the high bluffs opposite was situated Vina-Kya. The inhabitants at
once manned their drums and canoes, and advanced towards our camp. We
could not help it. Here we were camped in a low jungle. How could the
most captious, or the most cruel, of men find any cause or heart to
blame us for resting on this utterly uninhabitable spot? Yet the savages
of Vina-Kya did. Our interpreters were urged to be eloquent. And indeed
they were, if I may judge by the gestures, which was the only language
that was comprehensible to me. I was affected with a strange, envious
admiration for those two young fellows, cannibals it is true, but
endowed, none the less, with a talent for making even senseless limbs
speak—and they appeared to have affected the savages of Vina-Kya also.
At any rate, the wild natures relented for that day; but they promised
to decapitate us early in the morning, for the sake of a horrid barbecue
they intended to hold. We resolved not to wait for the entertainment.
_Dec. 30._—At dawn we embarked, and descended about two miles, close to
the right bank, when, lo! the broad mouth of the magnificent Lowwa, or
Rowwa river burst upon the view. It was over a thousand yards wide, and
its course by compass was from the south-east, or east-southeast true. A
sudden rainstorm compelled us to camp on the north bank, and here we
found ourselves under the shadows of the primeval forest.
Judging from the height and size of these trees, I doubt whether the
right bank of the Livingstone at the mouth of the Lowwa river was ever
at any time inhabited. An impenetrable undergrowth consisting of a
heterogeneous variety of ferns, young palms, date, doum, _Raphia
vinifera_, and the _Mucuna pruriens_—the dread of the naked native for
the tenacity with which its stinging sharp-pointed bristles attach
themselves to the skin—masses of the capsicum plant, a hundred species
of clambering vines, caoutchouc creepers, llianes, and endless lengths
of rattan-cane intermeshed and entangled, was jealously sheltered from
sunlight by high, over-arching, and interlacing branches of fine grey-
stemmed Rubiaceæ, camwood and bombax, teak, elais palms, ficus, with
thick fleshy leaves, and tall gum-trees. Such is the home of the
elephants which through this undergrowth have trodden the only paths
available. In the forks of trees were seen large lumps, a spongy
excrescence which fosters orchids and tender ferns, and from many of the
branches depended the Usneæ moss in graceful and delicate fringes. Along
the brown clayey shores, wherever there is the slightest indentation in
the banks and still water, were to be found the Cyperaceæ sedge, and in
deeper recesses and shallow water the papyrus.
In such cool, damp localities as the low banks near the confluence of
these two important streams, entomologists might revel. The Myriapedes,
with their lengthy sinuous bodies of bright shiny chocolate or deep
black colour, are always one of the first species to attract one’s
attention. Next come the crowded lines of brown, black, or yellow ants,
and the termites, which, with an insatiable appetite for destruction,
are ever nibbling, gnawing, and prowling. If the mantis does not arrest
the eye next, it most assuredly will be an unctuous earth caterpillar,
with its polished and flexible armour, suggestive of slime and nausea.
The mantis among insects is like the python among serpents. Its strange
figure, trance-like attitudes, and mysterious ways have in all countries
appealed to the imagination of the people. Though sometimes five inches
in length, its waist is only about the thickness of its leg. Gaunt,
weird, and mysterious in its action, it is as much a wonder among
insects as a mastodon would be in a farmyard. The ladybird attracts the
careless eye, as it slowly wanders about, by its brilliant red, spotted
with black—but if I were to enter into details of the insect life I saw
within the area of a square foot, an entire chapter might readily be
filled. But to write upon the natural wonders of the tropics seems
nowadays almost superfluous; it is so well understood that in these
humid shades the earth seethes with life, that in these undrained
recesses the primitive laboratory of nature is located, for disturbing
which the unacclimatised will have to pay the bitter penalty of malarial
fever.
One hears much about the “silence of the forest,” but the tropical
forest is not silent to the keen observer. The hum and murmur of
hundreds of busy insect tribes make populous the twilight shadows that
reign under the primeval growth. I hear the grinding of millions of
mandibles, the furious hiss of a tribe just alarmed or about to rush to
battle, millions of tiny wings rustling through the nether air, the
march of an insect tribe under the leaves, the startling leap of an
awakened mantis, the chirp of some eager and garrulous cricket, the buzz
of an ant-lion, the roar of a bullfrog. Add to these the crackle of
twigs, the fall of leaves, the dropping of nut and berry, the occasional
crash of a branch, or the constant creaking and swaying of the forest
tops as the strong wind brushes them or the gentle breezes awake them to
whispers. Though one were blind and alone in the midst of a real
tropical forest, one’s sense of hearing would be painfully alive to the
fact that an incredible number of minute industries, whose number one
could never hope to estimate, were active in the shades. Silence is
impossible in a tropical forest.
About ten o’clock, as we cowered in most miserable condition under the
rude, leafy shelters we had hastily thrown up, the people of the wooded
bluffs of Iryamba, opposite the Lowwa confluence, came over to see what
strange beings were those who had preferred the secrecy of the
uninhabited grove to their own loud roystering society. Stock still we
sat cowering in our leafy coverts, but the mild reproachful voice of
Katembo, our cannibal interpreter, was heard labouring in the interests
of peace, brotherhood, and goodwill. The rain pattered so incessantly
that I could from my position only faintly hear Katembo’s voice
pleading, earnestly yet mildly, with his unsophisticated brothers of
Iryamba, but I felt convinced from the angelic tones that they would act
as a sedative on any living creature except a rhinoceros or a crocodile.
The long-drawn bleating sound of the word “Sen-nen-neh,” which I heard
frequently uttered by Katembo, I studied until I became quite as
proficient in it as he himself.
Peace was finally made between Katembo on the one hand and the canoemen
of Iryamba on the other, and they drew near to gaze at their leisure at
one of the sallow white men, who with great hollow eyes peered, from
under the vizor of his cap, on the well-fed bronze-skinned aborigines.
After selling us ten gigantic plantains, 13 inches long and 3 inches in
diameter, they informed us that we had halted on the shore of Luru, or
Lulu, in the uninhabited portion of the territory of Wanpuma, a tribe
which lived inland; that the Lowwa came from the east, and was formed of
two rivers, called the Lulu from the north-east, and the Lowwa from the
south-east; that about a day’s journey up the Lowwa river was a great
cataract, which was “very loud.”
The Livingstone, from the base of Iryamba bluffs on the left bank to our
camp on the right bank, a mile below the confluence, was about two
thousand yards in width. By dead reckoning we ascertained the latitude
to be south 1° 28′, or 24 miles north of the Urindi affluent of the
Livingstone, 95 miles north of the Lira, and 199 geographical miles
north of the mouth of the Luama affluent.
The relative rank of these four great tributaries may be estimated by
their width, at or near the confluence. The Luama was 400 yards wide;
the Lira 300 yards, but deep; the Urindi, 500 yards; the Lowwa, 1000
yards. The parallel of latitude in which the Lowwa mouth is situated is
fifty miles north of the extreme north end of Lake Tanganika. From all I
could gather by a comparison of names and the relative authenticity of
my informants, I am inclined to believe that the sources of this last
great river may be placed near the south-west corner of Lake Muta-Nzigé;
also, that the Urindi’s head streams must approach the sources of the
Luanda, which joins the Rusizi, and flows into Lake Tanganika, and that
the Lira must drain the country west of Uvira.
The length of the Urindi river, which empties into the Livingstone only
fifteen miles south of the Lowwa, may be estimated by a glance at the
course of the Luama, which I followed from its source to its confluence
with the Lualaba. In the same manner, the Lira’s course and length may
be judged.
The growing importance and volume of the tributaries as we proceed north
also proves a northern prolongation of the mountain chain, which shuts
in Tanganika on the west, and probably a slight deflection to the
eastward. It will be observed also that while the Luama, the Lulindi,
the Kunda, the Kariba, the Rumuna, the Kipembwé, the Lira, Urindi, and
Lowwa rivers all issue from the country east, within a length of about
two hundred miles of the Livingstone, we have only discovered two
comparatively small rivers, the Ruiki and the Kasuku, issuing from the
west side during the same course. The nature of the eastern country may
be judged after a study of the chapter descriptive of our journey from
Lake Tanganika to the mouth of the Luama.
At 2 P.M. we left our camp in the forest of Luru, and pulled across to
the Iryamba side of the Livingstone. But as soon as the rain had ceased,
a strong breeze had risen, which, when we were in mid-river, increased
to a tempest from the north, and created great heavy waves, which caused
the foundering of two of our canoes, the drowning of two of our men,
Farjalla Baraka and Nasib, and the loss of four muskets and one sack of
beads. Half-a-dozen other canoes were in great danger for a time, but no
more fatal accidents occurred.
I feared lest this disaster might cause the people to rebel and compel
me to return, for it had shocked them greatly; but I was cheered to hear
them remark that the sudden loss of their comrades had been ordained by
fate, and that no precautions would have availed to save them. But
though omens and auguries were delivered by the pessimists among us, not
one hazarded aloud the belief that we ought to relinquish our projects;
yet they were all evidently cowed by our sudden misfortune.
_Dec. 31._—On the 31st, the last day of the year 1876, we resumed our
voyage. The morning was beautiful, the sky blue and clear, the tall
forest still and dark, the river flowed without a ripple, like a solid
mass of polished silver. Everything promised fair. But from the island
below, the confluence of the Lowwa and the Livingstone, the warning drum
sounded loudly over the river, and other drums soon echoed the dull
boom.
“Keep together, my men,” I cried, “there may be hot work for us below.”
We resolved to keep in mid-stream, because both the island and the left
bank appeared to be extremely populous, and to paddle slowly and
steadily down river. The canoes of the natives darted from either shore,
and there seemed to be every disposition made for a furious attack; but
as we drew near, we shouted out to them, “Friends, Sennenneh! Keep away
from us. We shall not hurt you; but don’t lift your spears, or we’ll
fight.”
There was a moment’s hesitation, wherein spears were clashed against
shields, and some fierce words uttered, but finally the canoes drew
back, and as we continued to paddle, the river with its stiff current
soon bore us down rapidly past the populous district and island.
Before we finally passed by the latter, we came to another island which
was uninhabited, and, after descending by a narrow channel, we crossed
the mouth of a stream about twenty-five yards wide, flowing from the
west side, in which were several small canoes and some dozen fishermen,
lifting their nets from among the sedge.
At noon of this day we came to the southern end of an uninhabited low
and sandy island, where I ascertained the latitude to be south 1° 20′
30″. The altitude, above sea-level, of the river at this place is 1729
feet.
South of this position we struck across to the right bank again and
discovered a small river 40 yards wide at the mouth, nearly opposite
which, about mid-stream, are five low and bush-covered islets. After
descending some five miles we formed our camp in the woods on the right
bank.
_Jan. 1._—The beginning of the new year, 1877, commenced, the first
three hours after sunrise, with a delicious journey past an uninhabited
tract, when my mind, wearied with daily solicitude, found repose in
dwelling musingly upon the deep slumber of Nature. Outwardly the forest
was all beauty, solemn peace, and soft dreamy rest, tempting one to
sentiment and mild melancholy. Though it was vain to endeavour to
penetrate with our eyes into the dense wall of forest—black and
impervious to the sunlight which almost seemed to burn up the river—what
could restrain the imagination? These were my calm hours, periods when
my heart, oblivious of the dark and evil days we had passed, resolutely
closed itself against all dismal forebodings, and revelled in the
exquisite stillness of the uninhabited wilderness.
But soon after nine o’clock we discovered we were approaching
settlements, both on islands and on the banks, and again the hoarse war-
drums awaked the echoes of the forest, boomed along the river, and
quickened our pulses.
We descend in close order as before, and steadily pursue our way. But,
heading us off, about ten long canoes dart out from the shadow of palmy
banks, and the wild crews begin to chant their war-songs, and now and
then, in attitudes of bravado and defiance, raise spears and shields
aloft and bring them downward with sounding clash.
As we approached them we shouted out “Sen-nen-neh”—our Sesame and
Shibboleth, our watchword and countersign. But they would not respond.
Hitherto they had called us Wasambye; we were now called Wijiwa (people
of the sun?); our guns were called Katadzi, while before they were
styled Kibongeh, or lightning. Katembo was implored to be eloquent, mild
of voice, pacific in gesture.
They replied, “We shall eat Wajiwa meat to-day, Oho, we shall eat Wajiwa
meat!” and then an old chief gave some word of command, and at once 100
paddles beat the water into foam, and the canoes darted at us. But the
contest was short, and we were permitted to pursue our voyage.
The river, beyond these islands, expanded to a breadth of 3000 yards:
the left bank being high, and the right low. At noon we were in south
latitude 1° 10′.
Five miles below, the river narrowed to about 2800 yards, and then we
floated down past an uninhabited stretch, the interval affording us
rest, until, reaching the southern end of a large island, we camped,
lest we might be plunged into hostilities once more.
_Jan. 2._—The second of January was a lively day. We first ran the
gauntlet past Mirembuka, an exciting affair, and next we were challenged
by Mwana-Mara’s fierce sons, who were soon joined by Mwana Vibondo’s
people, and about 10.30 A.M. we had to repulse an attack made by the
natives of Lombo a Kiriro. We had fought for three hours almost without
a pause, for the Kewanjawa and Watomba tribe from the left bank had
joined in the savage mêlée, and had assisted the tribes of the right
bank. Then for an hour we had rest; but after that we came to islands,
which we afterwards discovered were called Kibombo, and, finding the
tribe of Amu Nyam preparing for battle with animation, we took advantage
of one of the group to see if we could not negotiate a peaceful passage
before risking another fight. The latitude of this island was south 0°
52′ 0″.
Katembo, our interpreter, and his friend, were despatched in a canoe
manned by eight men, halfway to the shore, to speak fair and sweet words
of peace to the Amu Nyam. No verbal answer was given to them, but they
had to retreat in a desperate hurry before a rapidly advancing crowd of
canoes. The Amu Nyams had evidently not had time to be undeceived by
their friends above, for they came up with a dauntless bearing, as
though accustomed to victory. Yet we held out copper armlets and long
strings of shells to them, vociferously shouting out “Sen-nen-neh,” with
appropriate and plausible gestures. They laughed at us; and one fellow,
who had a mighty door-like shield painted black with soot, using his
long spear as an index finger, asked us—if Katembo spoke correctly—if we
thought we could disappoint them of so much meat by the presents of a
few shells and a little copper.
Our canoes were lying broadside along the reedy island, and as soon as
the first spears were thrown, the Wangwana received orders to reply to
them with brass slugs, which created such a panic that a couple of shots
from each man sufficed to drive them back in confusion. After a while
they recovered, and from a distance began to fly their poisoned arrows;
but the Sniders responded to them so effectually that they finally
desisted, and we were again free from our meat-loving antagonists.
About 2 P.M. we dropped down river again a few miles, and at 4.30 P.M.
halted to camp at an old clearing on the right bank. Had we dared, we
might have continued our journey by night, but prudence forbade the
attempt, as cataracts might have been more disastrous than cannibals.
Near sunset we were once more alarmed by finding arrows dropping into
the camp. Of course there was a general rush to the guns; but, upon
noting the direction whence the arrows came, I ordered the people simply
to go on about their duties as though nothing had occurred, while I sent
twenty men in two canoes down the river with instructions to advance
upon the enemy from behind, but by no means to fire unless they were
overwhelmed in numbers.
Just at dark our canoes came back with three prisoners bound hand and
foot. Except the poor dwarf at Ikondu up river, I had not seen any human
creatures so unlovable to look at. There was no one feature about them
that even extravagant charity could indicate as elevating them into the
category of noble savages. I do not think I was prejudiced; I examined
their faces with eyes that up to that time had gazed into the eyes of
over five hundred thousand black men. They were intolerably ugly. I
would not disturb them, however, that evening, but releasing their feet,
and relaxing the bonds on their arms, appointed Katembo and his friend
to keep them company and feed them, and Wadi Rehani to stimulate the
keepers to be hospitable.
_Jan. 3._—By the morning they were sociable, and replied readily to our
questions. They were of the Wanongi—an inland tribe—but they had a small
fishing village about an hour’s journey below our camp called Katumbi. A
powerful tribe called the Mwana Ntaba occupied a country below Katumbi,
near some falls, which they warned us would be our destruction. On the
left side of the river, opposite the Mwana Ntaba, were the Wavinza,
south of a large river called the Rumami, or Lumami. The great river on
which we had voyaged was known to them as the Lowwa.
As we stepped into our canoes we cut their bonds and permitted the
unlovable and unsympathetic creatures to depart, a permission of which
they availed themselves gladly.
The banks were from 10 to 30 feet high, of a grey-brown clay, and steep
with old clearings, which were frequent at this part until below
Katumbi. Half an hour afterwards we arrived at a channel which flowed in
a sudden bend to the north-east, and, following it, we found ourselves
abreast of a most populous shore, close to which we glided. Presently
several large canoes appeared from behind an island to our right, and
seemed to be hesitating as to whether they should retreat or advance.
The “Open Sesame”—“Sen-nen-neh!”—was loudly uttered by Katembo with his
usual pathetic, bleating accent, and to our joy the word was repeated by
over a hundred voices. “Sen-nen-neh! Sennenneh! Sennenneh!”—each voice
apparently vying with the other in loudness. The river bore us down, and
as they would not shorten the distance, we thought it better to keep
this condition of things, lest the movement might be misconstrued, and
we might be precipitated into hostilities.
For half an hour we glided down in this manner, keeping up a constant
fire of smiling compliments and pathetic Sennennehs. Indeed, we were
discovering that there was much virtue in a protracted and sentimental
pronunciation of Sen-nen-neh! The men of the Expedition, who had
previously ridiculed with mocking Ba-a-a-a-as, the absurd moan and
plaintive accents of Sen-nen-neh, which Katembo had employed, now
admired him for his tact. The good natives with whom we were now
exchanging these suave, bleating courtesies proved to us that the true
shibboleth of peace was to prolong each word with a quavering moan and
melancholic plaint.
We came to a banana grove of a delicious and luxuriant greenness, which
the shadowy black green of the antique forest behind it only made more
agreeable and pleasant. Beyond this grove, the bank was lined by
hundreds of men and women, standing or sitting down, their eyes directed
towards our approaching flotilla.
“Sen-nen-neh!” was delivered with happy effect by one of the boat-boys.
A chorus of Sen-nen-nehs, long-drawn, loud, and harmonious, quickly
following the notes of the last syllable, burst from the large assembly,
until both banks of the great river re-echoed it with all its
indescribable and ludicrous pathos.
The accents were peaceful, the bearing of the people and the presence of
the women were unmistakably pacific, so the word was given to drop
anchor.
The natives in the canoes, who had hitherto preceded us, were invited to
draw near, but they shrugged their shoulders, and declined the
responsibility of beginning any intercourse with the strangers. We
appealed to the concourse on the banks, for we were not a hundred feet
from them. They burst out into a loud laughter, yet with nothing of
scorn or contempt in it, for we had been so long accustomed to the
subtle differences of passion that we were by this time adepts in
discovering the nicest shades of feeling which wild humanity is capable
of expressing. We held out our hands to them with palms upturned, heads
sentimentally leaning on one side, and, with a captivating earnestness
of manner, begged them to regard us as friends, strangers far from their
homes, who had lost their way, but were endeavouring to find it by going
down the river.
The effect is manifest. A kind of convulsion of tenderness appears to
animate the entire host. Expressions of pity break from them, and there
is a quick interchange of sympathetic opinions.
“Ah,” thought I, “how delighted Livingstone would have been had he been
here to regard this scene! Assuredly he would have been enraptured, and
become more firmly impressed than ever with the innocence and
guilelessness of true aborigines,” and I am forced to admit it is
exceedingly pleasant, but—I wait.
We hold up long necklaces of beads of various colours to view: blue,
red, white, yellow, and black.
“Ah-h-h,” sigh a great many, admiringly, and heads bend towards heads in
praise and delight of them.
“Come, my friends, let us talk. Bring one canoe here. These to those who
dare to approach us.” There is a short moment of hesitation, and then
some forms disappear, and presently come out again bearing gourds,
chickens, bananas, and vegetables, &c., which they place carefully in a
small canoe. Two women step in and boldly paddle towards us, while a
deathly silence prevails among my people as well as among the aborigines
on the bank.
I observed one or two coquettish airs on the part of the two women, but
though my arm was getting tired with holding out so long in one position
those necklaces of glorious beads, I dared not withdraw them, lest the
fascination might be broken. I felt myself a martyr in the cause of
public peace, and the sentiment made me bear up stoically.
“Boy,” I muttered, in an undertone, to Mabruki, my gun-bearer, “when the
canoe is alongside, seize it firmly and do not let it escape.”
“Inshallah, my master.”
Nearer the canoe came, and with its approach my blandness increased, and
further I projected my arm with those beads of tempting colours.
At last the canoe was paddled alongside. Mabruki quietly grasped it. I
then divided the beads into sets, talking the while to Katembo—who
translated for me—of the happiness I felt at the sight of two such
beautiful women coming out to see the white chief, who was so good, and
who loved to talk to beautiful women. “There! these are for you—and
these are for you,” I said to the steerswoman and her mate.
They clapped their hands in glee, and each woman held out her presents
in view of the shore people; and hearty hand-claps from all testified to
their grateful feelings.
The women then presented me with the gourds of malofu—palm-wine—the
chickens, bananas, potatoes, and cassava they had brought, which were
received by the boat’s crew and the interested members of the Expedition
with such a hearty clapping of hands that it sent the shore people into
convulsions of laughter. Mabruki was now told to withdraw his hand, as
the women were clinging to the boats themselves, and peace was assured.
Presently the great native canoes drew near and alongside the boat,
forming dense walls of strange humanity on either side.
“Tell us, friends,” we asked, “why it is you are so friendly, when those
up the river are so wicked?”
Then a chief said, “Because yesterday some of our fishermen were up the
river on some islets near Kibombo Island, opposite the Amu-Nyam
villages; and when we heard the war-drums of the Amu-Nyam we looked up,
and saw your canoes coming down. You stopped at Kibombo Island, and we
heard you speak to them, saying you were friends. But the Amu-Nyam are
bad; they eat people, we don’t. They fight with us frequently, and
whomsoever they catch they eat. They fought with you, and while you were
fighting our fishermen came down and told us that the Wajiwa” (we) “were
coming; but they said that they heard the Wajiwa say that they came as
friends, and that they did not want to fight. To-day we sent a canoe,
with a woman and a boy up the river, with plenty of provisions in it. If
you had been bad people, you would have taken that canoe. We were behind
the bushes of that island watching you; but you said ‘Sen-nen-neh’ to
them, and passed into the channel between the island and our villages.
Had you seized that canoe, our drums would have sounded for war, and you
would have had to fight us, as you fought the Amu-Nyam. We have left our
spears on one of those islands. See, we have nothing.”
It was true, as I had already seen, to my wonder and admiration. Here,
then, I had opportunities for noting what thin barriers separated
ferocity from amiability. Only a couple of leagues above lived the
cannibals of Amu-Nyam, who had advanced towards us with evil and
nauseous intentions; but next to them was a tribe which detested the
unnatural custom of eating their own species, with whom we had readily
formed a pact of peace and goodwill!
They said their country was called Kankoré, the chief of which was
Sangarika, and that the village opposite to us was Maringa; and that
three miles below was Simba-Simba; that their country was small, and
only reached to the end of the islands; that after we had passed the
islands we should come to the territory of the Mwana Ntaba, with whom we
should have to fight; that the Mwana Ntaba people occupied the country
as far as the falls; that below the falls were several islands inhabited
by the Baswa, who were friends of the Mwana Ntaba. It would be
impossible, they said, to go over the falls, as the river swept against
a hill, and rolled over it, and tumbled down, down, down, with whirl and
uproar, and we should inevitably get lost. It would be far better, they
said, for us to return.
The strange disposition to rechristen the great river with the name of
its last great affluent, was here again exemplified, for the Kankoré
tribe called the river at the falls the Rumami, or Lumami, and it became
known no more as the Lowwa.
Other information we received was that the Watwa and Waringa tribes
lived on the other side of the Lumami. The dwarfs, called Wakwanga, were
said to be in a south-west direction. The Wavinza occupied the tract
between the Lumami and the Lowwa opposite to us. The Bakutzi, or Wakuti,
live west across the Lumami, which agrees with Abed the guide’s story.
On the right bank are situate Kankura, Mpassi, and Mburri; the chief of
the last-mentioned country being Mungamba. There is also a tribe called
the Ba-ama, whose chief, Subiri, trades in dogs and shells. Dogs are
considered by the Ba-ama as greater delicacies than sheep and goats. But
we were specially instructed to beware of the Bakumu, a powerful tribe
of light-complexioned cannibals, who came originally from the north-
east, and who, armed with bows and arrows, had conquered a considerable
section of Uregga, and had even crossed the great river. They would
undoubtedly, we were told, seek us out and massacre us all.
The Kankoré men were similar in dress and tattooing to the Waregga,
through whose forests we had passed. The women wore bits of carved wood
and necklaces of the Achatina fossil shell around their necks, while
iron rings, brightly polished, were worn as armlets and leg ornaments.
_Jan. 4._—Having obtained so much information from the amiable Kankoré,
we lifted our stone anchors and moved gently down stream. Before each
village we passed groups of men and women seated on the banks, who gave
a genial response to our peaceful greeting.
We were soon below the islands on our left, and from a course north by
west the river gradually swerved to north by east, and the high banks on
our right, which rose from 80 to 150 feet, towered above us, with grassy
breaks here and there agreeably relieving the sombre foliage of groves.
About 2 P.M., as we were proceeding quietly and listening with all our
ears for the terrible falls of which we had been warned, our vessels
being only about thirty yards from the right bank, eight men with
shields darted into view from behind a bush-clump, and shouting their
war-cries, launched their wooden spears. Some of them struck and dinted
the boat deeply, others flew over it. We shoved off instantly, and
getting into mid-stream found that we had heedlessly exposed ourselves
to the watchful tribe of Mwana Ntaba, who immediately sounded their
great drums, and prepared their numerous canoes for battle.
[Illustration: MWANA NTABA CANOE (THE “CROCODILE”).]
Up to this time we had met with no canoes over fifty feet long, except
that antique century-old vessel which we had repaired as a hospital for
our small-pox patients; but those which now issued from the banks and
the shelter of bends in the banks were monstrous. The natives were in
full war-paint, one half of their bodies being daubed white, the other
half red, with broad black bars, the _tout ensemble_ being unique and
diabolical. There was a crocodilian aspect about these lengthy vessels
which was far from assuring, while the fighting men, standing up
alternately with the paddlers, appeared to be animated with a most
ferocious cat-o’-mountain spirit. Horn-blasts which reverberated from
bank to bank, sonorous drums, and a chorus of loud yells, lent a fierce
éclat to the fight in which we were now about to be engaged.
We formed line, and having arranged all our shields as bulwarks for the
non-combatants, awaited the first onset with apparent calmness. One of
the largest canoes, which we afterwards found to be 85 feet 3 inches in
length, rashly made the mistake of singling out the boat for its victim;
but we reserved our fire until it was within fifty feet of us, and after
pouring a volley into the crew, charged the canoe with the boat, and the
crew, unable to turn her round sufficiently soon to escape, precipitated
themselves into the river and swam to their friends, while we made
ourselves masters of the _Great Eastern_ of the Livingstone. We soon
exchanged two of our smaller canoes and manned the monster with thirty
men, and resumed our journey in line, the boat in front acting as a
guide. This early disaster to the Mwana Ntaba caused them to hurry down
river, blowing their horns, and alarming with their drums both shores of
the river, until about forty canoes were seen furiously dashing down
stream, no doubt bent on mischief.
At 4 P.M. we came opposite a river about 200 yards wide, which I have
called the Leopold River, in honour of his Majesty Leopold II., King of
the Belgians, and which the natives called either the Kankora, Mikonju,
or Munduku. Perhaps the natives were misleading me, or perhaps they
really possessed a superfluity of names, but I think that whatever name
they give it should be mentioned in connection with each stream.
Soon after passing by the confluence, the Livingstone, which above had
been 2500 yards wide, perceptibly contracted, and turned sharply to the
east-north-east, because of a hill which rose on the left bank about 300
feet above the river. Close to the elbow of the bend on the right bank
we passed by some white granite rocks, from one to six feet above the
water, and just below these we heard the roar of the First Cataract of
the Stanley Falls series.
But louder than the noise of the falls rose the piercing yells of the
savage Mwana Ntaba from both sides of the great river. We now found
ourselves confronted by the inevitable necessity of putting into
practice the resolution which we had formed before setting out on the
wild voyage—to conquer or die. What should we do? Shall we turn and face
the fierce cannibals, who with hideous noise drown the solemn roar of
the cataract, or shall we cry out “Mambu Kwa Mungu”—“Our fate is in the
hands of God”—and risk the cataract with its terrors!
Meanwhile, we are sliding smoothly to our destruction, and a decision
must therefore be arrived at instantly. God knows, I and my fellows
would rather have it not to do, because possibly it is only a choice of
deaths, by cruel knives or drowning. If we do not choose the knives,
which are already sharpened for our throats, death by drowning is
certain. So finding ourselves face to face with the inevitable, we turn
to the right bank upon the savages, who are in the woods and on the
water. We drop our anchors and begin the fight, but after fifteen
minutes of it find that we cannot force them away. We then pull up
anchors and ascend stream again, until, arriving at the elbow above
mentioned, we strike across the river and divide our forces. Manwa Sera
is to take four canoes and to continue up stream a little distance, and,
while we occupy the attention of the savages in front, is to lead his
men through the woods and set upon them in rear. At 5.30 P.M. we make
the attempt, and keep them in play for a few minutes, and on hearing a
shot in the woods dash at the shore, and under a shower of spears and
arrows effect a landing. From tree to tree the fight is continued until
sunset, when, having finally driven the enemy off, we have earned peace
for the night.
Until about 10 P.M. we are busy constructing an impenetrable stockade or
boma of brushwood, and then at length, we lay our sorely fatigued bodies
down to rest, without comforts of any kind and without fires, but (I
speak for myself only) with a feeling of gratitude to Him who had
watched over us in our trouble, and a humble prayer that His protection
may be extended to us, for the terrible days that may yet be to come.