Katāgum and Hadeija, and Back
On December, 15 we actually left Kano. Trials and tribulations had
already been our share in more than generous measure, over the collection
of animals for transport, to replace the carriers who had brought our
belongings so far. The donkeys were difficult to obtain and wretchedly
small, and the problem of tying up miscellaneous luggage into ‘loads’ was
the hardest we had yet encountered.
It _sounds_ so simple, but I have never met any single traveller in this
country who, having once endured the ordeal—I can call it nothing else—of
‘animal transport,’ ever willingly repeated the experience! And indeed
it is, or should be, apparent to the least observant that the caravan
transport is one thing, and an Englishman’s luggage is another. I have
watched hundreds of times the arrival of caravans at their camp for
the night: the weight of the loads (salt, potash, kolas, cloth, etc.)
is regulated to an ounce, each one is packed in _exact_ similarity to
its fellow in size and shape, so that the two form a perfectly equally
balanced burden, which never slips, falls, nor worries the donkey;
moreover, once packed, so they remain, the tremendous web of string,
knotted and turned, twisted and knotted again, holds good for the entire
journey. On arrival, the two loads are simply lifted off the donkey’s
back, deposited on the ground and the _leferu_ on which they rest, laid
beside them. In the morning, the pillow is replaced, and the same loads
laid on it—the whole process taking less than five minutes.
Now observe the unfortunate European traveller! He will naturally look
round, as far as he can, for loads of an equal size, and, with luck, will
discover a couple of similar uniform cases. But who can guarantee that
the contents of each weigh exactly the same amount? Indeed, are there any
two boxes among his ‘kit’ that do? With muscular carriers, six or even
ten pounds more or less make little difference; here, it means that the
heavier box over-balances the other, drags the pillow, and incites the
donkey to quietly scrape against the nearest tree, relieving himself of
the whole thing—small blame to him!—and the crash of falling loads is a
sound only too familiar to any one who has travelled in this way.
The wayfarer next hunts round among his possessions, and wonders how he
is to unite any two of a folding bath, a camp chair, a Lord’s lantern, a
tent and an open box of cooking pots, into equal-sized and shaped loads.
The answer may, and should be, arrived at without any of the mental
strain usually devoted to it, for it is quite simple—_it cannot be done_!
The wretched little animals are small and weakly at the best, and, since
even in the caravans, with short marches and the ‘perfect’ load, they
acquire terrible sore backs, the employment of them with ill-balanced
odd-shaped burdens is simply gross cruelty. I shudder now when I remember
our donkeys’ backs, washed, dressed and cared for as they were, with
the utmost tenderness. Another serious drawback is that they travel far
more slowly than carriers; indeed, the caravans hardly ever do more than
eight or ten miles a day, and the ‘trek ox’ proceeds even more leisurely!
Unless each animal has its own driver, the accidents are incessant, and
the delay maddening, for what can be done by the driver of five, when one
donkey casts its loads and skips off into the bush? Is he to leave the
remainder of his charge, knowing as he does, for a certainty, that those
he leaves will immediately do likewise? Having captured the runaway,
how is he, unaided, to get two awkward sixty-pound loads into their
former position? It means that the traveller, his servants, escort and
staff are all compelled to crawl at the rate of two-and-a-half miles an
hour, with probably twenty miles to cover before water can be reached.
Many and many a grilling half-hour have we both spent in this agreeable
occupation; personally I preferred catching the donkeys, in spite of the
heat, to adjusting my battered belongings on their shrinking backs! I can
safely say we had more of our possessions lost and destroyed during our
journey to Katāgum and back, than we have lost in the whole of our five
years out in Africa!
On the return journey the pack oxen were our greatest trial; they had an
inveterate habit of lying down, loads and all, in any shallow river they
crossed, and once a pack ox lies down ‘all the king’s horses and all the
king’s men’ will not move him an inch until he has recovered from his
fatigue. One of our largest and best defeated us in this fashion in a
village, and no method we could devise, including the whole strength of
the village, and even, in despair, a flicker of fire just under his nose,
had the slightest effect, the latter device merely producing a faint
smell of scorch, so horrible in its suggestion that we flew to stamp it
out, and hurriedly sold the delinquent to the villagers, who, seeing us
at a distinct disadvantage in the matter, made an uncommonly good bargain
for themselves!
By ten o’clock on December 15 we had begun to get an inkling of what lay
before us; the whole of the donkeys had straggled out of the compound, we
said our last good-byes and followed them—only to find most of the loads
scattered on the road, not fifty yards away, and the donkeys careering
gladly back to their happy homes! Patience, patience, and yet more
patience! There is really nothing else for it—fury only exhausts one, and
does not catch the donkeys!
Eventually we got off, and were fairly started on the long white road,
trending south-east, winding in and out on a dead level, among miles of
farms and hamlets. Barth has remarked that ‘the Province of Kano may
truly be called the garden of Central Africa,’ and to us it appeared
marvellously fertile, especially at that season of the year, when every
river-bed was dry, and the whole land waterless, save for an occasional
well.
One evening we had rather an interesting experience: among our party we
numbered a ‘political agent,’ Ganna by name, and a strict Mahomedan,
an interpreter called Daniel, a Christian convert with more zeal than
tact or knowledge, and a Senegalese soldier, Braima, who had become a
fast friend of mine, marching always beside my pony, and giving me his
opinions on things in general, in his queerly pronounced French, while he
contentedly munched away at my kola-nuts which I scrupulously shared with
him. He had served with the French troops in Dahomey, and his stories of
their proceedings were most amusing, if slightly startling! His affection
for us became so strong that, before we severed our connexion, he
cheerfully offered to desert from the N.N.R. for my benefit, on condition
that I would install him as ‘head boy,’ and was quite mournful when shown
the impracticability of his suggestion!
In an idle moment, these three men had embarked on a theological
discussion, and, like their enlightened and highly civilized white
brethren in England, got so heated and furious in their argument that
Ganna only averted bloodshed by a happy suggestion that they should all
come to us and let us arbitrate.
Daniel had first say. He commenced by a sweeping denunciation of all
Mahomedans, and, incidentally, such dogs of heathen as Senegalese and
such like. Their hearts and consciences were of the blackest, he informed
us; and drew vivid pictures of their final fate and destination. On
being sharply pulled up, and told to confine himself to his own creed,
he unctuously explained as follows: ‘Well, God is a kind of a scorpion.
When man do bad, he turn up him tail—so—and bite him _proper_! If man do
good, then God just lef (leave) him!’ Ganna’s creed was too well known
to us to require explaining at length, and the soldier added little to
the discussion except furious indignation against Daniel for having
stigmatized him as a dog and a heathen. His own ‘views’ were ill-defined,
I fancy, except for a strong sense of personal loyalty and affection, and
a fatal passion for a row of any kind!
We then set to work to place before them all Christianity pure and
simple, untainted by creed or dogma, the plain doctrine of one God and
Father of all, Christian and Mahomedan, black and white, and every
living creature, whether known as ‘Allah’, ‘God,’ or ‘Le Bon Dieu.’ They
seemed curiously astonished at such a pronouncement, Ganna receiving
it with deep-voiced ‘Gaskia ne! Gaskia ne! Mahad Allah!’ (True, true,
thank God!) Braima, staring into the fire and grunting, ‘C’est ça!’ at
intervals; while Daniel sniffed suspiciously and with some contempt.
He retired finally with his smug complacency quite unshaken, evidently
considering our doctrines milk-and-water affairs compared with his own
fiery ultimatums!
This little episode reminded my husband of another, which took place
some years ago in Accra, when his ‘boy’, a Christian, having learned to
read at school, delighted to read Bible stories aloud to the orderly,
and on this occasion selected ‘Jonah and the Whale’ for his instruction.
The orderly listened with round eyes and growing incredulity, and at the
conclusion remarked emphatically: ‘That be dam lie!’ ‘Dam lie? You say
that? Dis be _Bible_—if you say Bible be lie, you go hell one time!’
‘Don’t care!’ said the orderly doggedly, ‘P’raps I go hell, I don’t know,
but I no fit to believe that story—dam lie!’
The outraged little reader trotted off with his Bible under his arm, and
wrath in his heart!
After a few days’ marching through rather uninteresting country, level,
sandy and treeless, we climbed on to a sandy ridge which looked exactly
as if it _must_ have the sea behind it, and continued our way along the
top for nine or ten miles, in deep sand, most fatiguing to men and ponies
alike:
Toiling in immeasurable sand
O’er a weary, sultry land,
Far beneath a blazing vault.
There was a wonderful view on either side, miles and miles of plain, all
sand, low bushes and scanty grass—a veritable sea of grey-green fading
into pale blue in the far distance. When the eye became accustomed to the
vast sweep of green, one discovered innumerable tiny hamlets and farms,
all neatly fenced, and growing healthy crops of cotton and cassava,
apparently in pure sand. It was a remarkable sight, and seemed to be the
very edge of the Desert. I could image it being brilliantly beautiful in
the rainy season, but in December, with everything enveloped in a dismal
hot grey-drab mist, the scene was depressing and gloomy to a degree. Far
apart were isolated wells, some presenting quite a Biblical appearance,
with the waiting herds and flocks, and white-robed figures.
As we entered the Katāgum Province, the country changed to light
woodland, a great relief, and pleasant to march through, had it not
been for the truly terrible thorns. The trees were mostly mimosa and
camel-thorn in full blossom, the sickly-sweet scent of which is most
unpleasant and powerful. The last march into Katāgum was like entering a
new country, as rich and fertile as the last had been barren and dreary.
We arrived on Christmas Eve, and felt great satisfaction at not being
obliged to spend Christmas Day on the road. The Acting Resident was
waiting to welcome us, and we took possession of a ‘house’ of grass
matting, built round an immense Kuka tree, the trunk of which formed one
entire side. It was very spacious and really exceedingly comfortable but
for the presence of some highly objectionable large black ants, the smell
of which, should they be disturbed or crushed accidentally, was so truly
awful as to drive us all—dogs included—out into the open air to recover!
We had some really cold nights, when the temperature dropped to 54°,
and regularly, each morning, a strong chilly wind would spring up about
seven, and last till ten o’clock, when it sank away quite suddenly, and
usually some extremely hot hours followed.
From our doorway we could look for miles around, over a plain of waving
grass, dotted with palm trees, mainly the Egyptian Doum palm with its
curious bifurcations. The town was about a mile from our settlement, and
the river wound away to the south-west, bordered with brilliant green
patches of wheat and onions. Game of all kinds was very plentiful at that
time; we could always see the deer roaming fearlessly about, and, evening
after evening, we used to ride out in different directions, and had
capital sport.
My own small occupations were of quite a different nature from my usual
hobbies; gardening at this season of the year was, of course, out of the
question, but we had succeeded in conveying a few Black Minorca fowls
from England, and they behaved splendidly, laying well all the time—even
on the march, every day, we found one or two eggs in the basket! The
care of a farm-yard was quite a novelty to me. I found it a fascinating
occupation—one that grows upon one, too. We also revelled in rich milk,
and every morning I amused myself by making butter in a small plunge
churn, which I had brought with me. It was very excellent butter, and I
was equally proud of my cream cheeses! But my efforts to manage cows,
calves, and herdsmen after the manner of an English dairy, were a dismal
failure, and I gave them up, submitting meekly, but much against my will,
to the ‘custom of the country!’
The Katāgum people were specially pleasant to deal with: half Fulani,
half Beri-beri,—a combination which seems to make for unusual
intelligence, coupled with admirable spirit and innate courtesy. They
made friends at once, and the Sariki and his immediate followers were
my almost daily visitors. On one of these visits, with a sort of shy
reproach he touched the skirt of my coloured linen frock, and asked
gently why, when I came to his house to see him, I did not wear pretty
clothes like that—his people only saw me in a black _gown_ (my habit!)
After that I had to sacrifice comfort to friendship, and be careful to
ride into the town in my lightest muslin!
On another occasion, the Sariki explained to me that, as I had evidently
been ‘sent’ to them as a special mark of favour, it was quite necessary
for them to know my name;—what should they call me? ‘A man’s name,’ I
remarked, ‘is given to him by his friends. Give me a name yourselves,’
After cogitating in whispers, the old man said, smiling, that they would
in future know me as ‘Uwāmu’ (Our Mother), and so I received my ‘country’
name, one that has stuck to me ever since, and by which I am known to all
my dark-skinned friends throughout Nigeria. I am always proud of it, for
though, at the time, I felt inclined to smile at being so addressed by
men old enough to be my father, the title is recognized to be the highest
expression of respect and affection that the African man can offer to a
woman.
We were presented with a pair of tame marabouts, but their tameness
was a doubtful quantity; and though it was amusing enough to see them
dancing and playing about in the sunshine, their temper was not of the
best, and they attacked every one who approached the house, snapping
their formidable beaks angrily. The poor dogs were in absolute terror
of them, and would warily wait their opportunity outside, till the
marabouts’ attention was distracted, when a white streak of fox-terrier
would fly in, only just escaping the furious beating of wings and
clapping of beaks! They were so tiresome that we parted with them, and
replaced them by a baby ostrich, which we bought for a sovereign: a
most attractive little person, about the size of a duck, a mere ball
of soft, mouse-coloured fluff, with beautiful velvety black eyes, and
long _eyelashes_! It had never occurred to me before, that ostriches
had eyelashes! His diet consisted mainly of chopped-up onions and bran,
though he fulfilled the traditions of his race—and alarmed me horribly—by
swallowing all kinds of weird things. I have seen him devour with relish
all the pieces of a broken glass bangle; and any odd bits of china,
stone, or metal appeared to be equally tasty morsels. He became very tame
at once, and would wander about freely, and sometimes stand beside me for
an hour at a time, gently nipping at my sleeve or slippers.
Life in this rural retreat, however, did not last long, and the end of
January found us under orders to return to Zungeru, and, very sadly,
packing once more. We started, after infinite difficulty, as usual
over transport, which delayed us so long eventually that the sun was
uncomfortably high before we said our farewells and rode away from
Katāgum. We had a guide to set us on the road to Murmur, a different
route from that by which we had reached Katāgum, and he either misled
us, or was ignorant himself, for, after his last asseveration of ‘Oh! it
is _quite_ near now!’ and subsequent departure, we marched for hours,
losing the almost imperceptible path, finding it again, after collecting
our straggling party—a matter of some difficulty—all thirsty, tired and
grumbling, calling down Heaven’s vengeance on the perfidious guide, and
eventually reached Murmur after sunset.
It was a curious coincidence that we found ourselves on the spot where
Richard Oudney died, exactly eighty years before (January, 1824),
striving, in spite of desperate illness, to reach Kano, in company with
Clapperton. The latter describes the sad events—Oudney’s determination
to make a further effort, insisting on resuming the journey, for which
he was quite unfit, ministering to the needs of the natives with what
was absolutely his last flicker of strength, then reluctantly giving up
the impossible, ‘retiring into his tent’ and lying down to die. There,
Clapperton buried his beloved friend, and we were deeply interested in
the site of his resting-place. The village people were quite touchingly
surprised and delighted when we repeated the story to them; it was
obviously a familiar one. The Sariki’s father had been a boy at the time,
but such a remarkable event was not likely to be forgotten, and they
started, as one man, to conduct us to the grave. It may be remembered
that Clapperton gives minute details of its position, which accorded
exactly with the spot to which we were led, leaving no possible doubt of
its accuracy. The ‘great tree’ had fallen, and the tomb, originally a
massive erection of clay, had been worn down by rain to an insignificant
mound, round which we planted a circle of seeds of the fragrant white
acacia, or _marengo_, in the earnest hope that they might grow and stand,
for many years, a memorial to the honour of that brave unselfish soul.
At Murmur, a grave difficulty presented itself. The people told us
we were off the main road altogether, the wells were almost dry, and
we could not hope to find enough water for our party and animals
between there and Kano, save on the regular caravan road, joining
which necessitated our turning north and marching to Hadeija, a large
town twenty miles north of Katāgum. It was not a matter to be lightly
decided, adding even twenty-five miles to a march as long as ours; yet,
the responsibility of taking a large party of men and animals through
a waterless district was one from which most people would shrink, so
we assembled the whole party, explained the situation, and frankly
consulted them. They unanimously voted for the extra march to Hadeija,
knowing, I suppose, better than we did, the utter impossibility of
obtaining sufficient food and water anywhere ‘off the line;’ and probably
influenced by the fact that the carriers from Katāgum bolted in the
night, giving as their reason for so doing their determination not to
‘die of thirst.’
The decision relieved us of an immense anxiety, and we started cheerfully
for Hadeija, sleeping that night at a tiny hamlet, where we were met and
welcomed by the Emir’s messengers.
The following morning we reached Hadeija, and the scene, on our approach
to the town, was one that I shall never forget. There was the vast extent
of rose-red wall, swarming with dark figures, the river flowing between
us and the town, and, on the far bank,—a space of nearly half a mile—a
dense mass of people watching with intense interest and expectancy. They
stood, an absolutely silent, swaying crowd, as we picked our way down the
steep bank, crossed the shallow river, and scrambled our ponies up the
other side. There we saw a pathway in the crowd kept by troops—positively
_cavalry_, four or five hundred of them,—drawn up in two double lines,
rigid and motionless in their saddles, the horses loaded with jingling
brass armour, heavy breast-plates and head-pieces, neighing, squealing
and kicking, but forced to stand comparatively still, merely pawing the
ground and tossing foam from their tortured mouths; stirrup touching
stirrup with a military precision that would not have disgraced any
regiment of British cavalry. The soldiers were fine big men, splendidly
turned out, and sat like living statues, but for the bright, restless
black eyes, between the folds of white cloth _litham_, following our
every movement. I doubt, though, whether any one there could have been
half as much interested in us, as I was myself at seeing this spectacle
of truly barbaric African splendour, riding behind my husband, feeling
_very_ small, travel-stained and dusty, amid so much brilliance and
colour! It seemed to take one back centuries in the world’s civilization,
and, with a gasp, came the realization that we had stepped into a world
where time had stood still, and the ages passed over without leaving a
mark!
At the end of the long line of horsemen was a little group of the chief
office-holders, surrounding their Emir, who, as we dismounted, approached
to greet us. He was a large, powerfully-built man, with the kindliest of
faces, and the gentlest voice I have ever heard; his quiet tones, almost
a whisper, veiling an authority, the response to which, in its instant
obedience and child-like submission, was quite startling.
His voluminous garments of brilliant green and white, and towering white
_rawani_, or turban, were surmounted by a burnous of white cloth, the
hood of which, edged with silk fringe, drawn over the tall head-dress and
falling round his face, gave him a positively patriarchal expression of
benevolence and kindliness. The courteous, dignified cordiality of our
welcome was perfect, and, the ceremonial greetings over, we were escorted
to the rest-camp prepared for us outside the city. Here, a regular little
colony of grass houses had been built, large enough to accommodate a
party twice the size of ours: water, wood and provisions were ready;
not a comfort was lacking, not a detail had been overlooked. My friend,
the Senegalese soldier, having, as he frankly said, no experience of
such friendly visits while he served in the French army, harboured
suspicions of an ambush and treachery, and displayed, at first, a fierce
determination not to let us out of his sight;—suspicions which, however,
were completely dissipated when he discovered the unbounded, lavish
hospitality offered to him and his companions!
In the cool of the evening, we walked into the city, and were amazed at
the solidity and immense size of the wall, the area inferior to Kano,
but, in point of height and condition, greatly superior. The gateways
were huge, and so cunningly arranged with rectangular approaches that
no armed force could possibly rush them,—indeed, no more than three or
four men at a time could cross the narrow bridges, and, were any attempt
at defence being made inside these would probably not cross them alive.
The gates themselves had been removed, in obedience to an order issued
by my husband, while we were at Katāgum, and Hadeija, the impregnable,
the unconquered, stood friendly, smiling, open to all approach,—surely
a happy omen for the future for increased prosperity and uninterrupted
progress, we thought,—a hope, alas! not destined to be fulfilled.
Inside the gate by which we entered was an extensive space of open
ground and level turf, where the cattle were quietly grazing, and the
people passing up and down; far away in the distance were the buildings,
flushed in the sunset, overtopped by towering trees and clusters of
feathery palms. It was a sore disappointment to have to turn away
without exploring that unknown city, to turn my back on Hadeija, a
mere passing traveller, knowing that the chances of my seeing it again
were infinitesimal,—to me, it has always been the most poignant regret
of these five years spent in Nigeria. I am thankful not to have known
then, that so soon those peaceful streets would echo with war-cries, and
bloodshed and death be dealt out with a just, though unsparing hand,
for the sake of civilization and progress. I had just time to try to
make a hurried pencil-sketch of the scene before me, and the gate. This,
however, was rendered almost impossible by the friendly surging crowd,
by that time assembled,—all longing to know what in the world I was
doing, chattering, peeping, pressing forward—not mobbing, though—that
delicate attention is reserved for highly civilized countries; in Africa
it is ‘not done!’ So I gave up the attempt in amused despair, showed my
pictures to as many of my new friends as I could reach, and shut up my
sketch-book to take a last look at one of the most fascinating places of
its kind that I have ever seen.
The next morning we were up early, teeth chattering, and shivering in
the bitter chill of the winter dawn, in spite of a huge wood fire.
The Emir had announced his intention of escorting us on our way, to a
point seven miles from Hadeija, adding with emphasis, that, when the
Sariki-n-Mussulmi passed through, he only accompanied him _five_ miles!
He clattered off, surrounded by his army of horsemen and an apparently
unlimited crowd on foot, leaving us to digest the compliment, and drink
our morning coffee over the fire.
We found them all assembled under a group of trees. As we dismounted,
the horsemen formed up into a gigantic double circle, ourselves, the
Emir, his head men, and a few of our own people in the centre. When the
last farewells had been said, my husband asked that the Limam might offer
prayers for our safe journey, and—perhaps—another meeting some day, a
suggestion which evoked a deep murmur of satisfaction. The ‘cavalry’
dismounted and stood beside their horses, the Limam stood up, his
towering white head-dress and earnest dark face turned to the morning
sun, his solemn clear voice pouring out the prayer in sonorous Arabic,
every word distinct in the great silence; thousands of heads and hands
around followed every gesture, our own included, for, at that strange
moment creeds seemed very far away, and the one Father of us all, to whom
such earnest words were being addressed on our behalf, the sole reality.
It was a sight, I suppose, such as few people have ever witnessed, and it
made a very deep and lasting impression on us. I had a lump in my throat
when, as I turned to mount my pony, the stately old Emir laid his slender
brown hand, with a beautiful amber rosary twined among the fingers, on
my arm, and said gently: ‘You will come back to us; surely God will send
you back,’ And perhaps not the least remarkable incident was, when, as we
turned our horses’ heads, our escort, those who had been most suspicious,
most incredulous of our host’s good intentions, asked leave, to a man,
to fall out and obtain the Limam’s blessing, kneeling humbly at his
stirrup!
[Illustration: BRINGING IN FIRE-WOOD. (p. 103)]
[Illustration: A KANO DOORWAY. (p. 107)]
The whole circumstances of our visit to Hadeija, compared with the stormy
events which took place there two years later, are illustrative of a
point, we have frequently noticed, on hearing accounts of the peaceful
journeys of missionaries and sportsmen, and of the perfect hospitality
and friendliness they have found everywhere: that it is one thing to
travel independently through the unknown parts of Africa, and quite
another to administrate them successfully, introducing, of necessity,
unpopular measures, and restraining undesirable existing customs. One
acquaintance of ours, travelling about in search of sport, has wandered
all through the Munshi country, where the natives have proved themselves
aggressive and inimical to a degree towards any effort to establish law
and order. This is a fact, I think, commonly overlooked by those who,
with insufficient knowledge of the immense difficulties confronting
a Government in territories such as these, are inclined to condemn
wholesale and belittle the necessity of punitive expeditions and display
of force.
From Hadeija our march was perfectly ‘plain sailing,’ The Emir’s
messenger went before us and smoothed away every possible difficulty,
only leaving us on the border of the Kano Province.
One incident of the road which stands out in my memory was the ludicrous
struggles of our old cook, Jim Dow, to become an expert horseman, and to
fully enjoy the privilege of having a horse to ride. He had bought an
extremely tall horse, attracted more by its utter mildness of disposition
than by any other remarkable point of suitability. Having saddled up
his depressed-looking steed, he, being a dumpy little individual, under
five feet in height, could not possibly mount without assistance. This
he indignantly spurned, and would solemnly lead the horse, till he
discovered a likely-looking tree. The horse was placed conveniently
under it, and the little man clumsily and slowly climbed into the lower
branches, from which he hoped to drop gracefully into the saddle. But
the sad steed invariably strolled off in an absent-minded fashion at the
critical moment, leaving poor Jim Dow hanging painfully from a branch,
and using blistering language in ‘Kru’! I have seen this manœuvre
repeated four or five times on a march, and he was a never-failing source
of amusement to the whole party!
We reached Kano on Sunday, the 7th of February, having decided to sleep
the night before at a tiny village a few miles out, as one of our
ponies had broken loose and could not be re-captured until late in the
afternoon. This small mishap was extremely fortunate for us, as a matter
of fact, as we afterwards heard that at the very hour when, had we not
been delayed, we should have ridden up to the Residency gate at Kano, a
curious and unpleasant scene was taking place there.
A native soldier had been confined in the guard-room on account of
insolence and insubordination. While there, he coolly possessed
himself of a rifle and a pouch full of ammunition, and darted out of
the guard-room, the bewildering suddenness of his action apparently
paralysing the guard for the moment. He rushed out on to the parade
ground, shrieking vengeance on all ‘Batures’ (Englishmen), calling to
them to come and be shot, brandishing his rifle,—evidently quite insane
and ‘running amok.’ Taking careful aim, he shot dead five horses tethered
in the shade, belonging to his officers, and his shooting was so straight
that most natural reluctance was displayed by his comrades in the matter
of his re-capture. He actually sent a bullet through the doorway of
the hospital hut, possibly seeing some one moving there. Finally the
unfortunate lunatic was shot down, having been successfully ‘stalked’
from behind trees and other cover. It was a nasty occurrence, and much
relief was expressed at our non-appearance at such an awkward moment.
On arrival we found every one very sad and anxious about Captain
Abadie, who was lying very ill. He did not improve during the two days
we spent there, and, shortly after leaving, we heard, to our sorrow,
of his death,—a loss to Nigeria and his friends which could never be
over-estimated.
At Zaria we met many old friends, but stayed one night only, as we were
anxious to lose no time in getting down country. It was wretched there
then, in a tent, with a strong Harmattan blowing clouds of sand into our
eyes, filling every crevice, and covering our food before we had time to
eat it, even with the greatest expediency!
At Karshi we had the good fortune to meet Captain Robinson and Major
Porter, going North. We had tea with them at their camp, outside the
town, and in the evening they came and dined with us, only stipulating
that they should be allowed to contribute to the feast; and I shall
always remember the procession that preceded the arrival of our
guests,—‘boys’ carrying chairs, lanterns, Lager beer in buckets of
cold water, roast guinea-fowls, and a box of chocolates! We had a most
cheery dinner, and sat talking into the small hours, and even managed
to breakfast all together the next morning before going our several
ways. It is one of the pleasantest of my many pleasant memories in this
country,—the spontaneous friendly kindness of two complete strangers, as
they were then, coming at a time when most needed, for our spirits were
almost as low as our provisions, and the bull-terrier pup had distemper!
I do not suppose the two people concerned realized then, or do now, what
a difference they made in our outlook on life at that time,—if not, I
make them a present of the information now!
On the 28th of February, we found ourselves once more in Zungeru. A
vacant bungalow was lent to us, and we spent a few days there very
comfortably, in spite of the excessive heat. We heard with dismay of the
terrible disaster in the Bassa country, where Captain O’Riordan and Mr.
Burney lost their lives. My husband received orders to take over the
Kabba Province once again, and we started on the last stage of our long
journey. The noisy little train rattled us back to Barijuko; we embarked
in a steel canoe, and commenced to paddle and drift down the Kaduna. The
river was very low, and we stuck continually on the sandbanks, when the
polers all turned out into the water, not more than seven or eight inches
deep, and literally dug out the canoe till she was once more afloat.
We were overtaken the next day by a second canoe, containing Captain
Wright (who had won a V.C. in the Kano Expedition) invalided, home, and
three others. Each evening we ‘tied up’ in company, and had cheerful
‘sand-bank’ dinner-parties. It was very placid and delightful travelling;
I suppose we were both rather tired, and, for the first time in my life,
I found huge enjoyment in doing absolutely nothing, beyond watching the
river banks and sunlit water.
At Mureji there was quite a gathering, and—a thing unknown—a collection
of five ladies! Dr. and Mrs. Thompstone were there, on their way to
Zungeru, and three Nursing Sisters, travelling up and down. We met some
old friends, and were quite a gay party, but it was a sad day for me,—my
beloved baby ostrich was suddenly taken ill, wandering about as usual, on
the bank, and, in spite of the greatest kindness shown me by Dr. Miller
of the C.M.S., who was on board, the poor little bird died in a few
hours. It seemed piteous indeed, when he had travelled so far without a
single mishap, and I was bitterly grieved at the loss.
It was, however, a great delight, under any circumstances, to see the
Niger again; as the _Corona_ sped down stream, every bush and rock seemed
familiar, and to be welcoming us ‘home’ to Lokoja. We settled down in
our former bungalow, and, in a few weeks, I could hardly believe that we
had travelled all those hundreds of miles in the past six months. The
much-talked-of North country had considerably disappointed us in its
appearance; and, with the exception of Kano and Hadeija, I think I can
safely say that neither of us has the least desire to see any part of it
again.