EN ROUTE FOR KILIMATINDE
At about a quarter to seven a Leutenant came into my cell. In peace-time
he was an officer in the D.O.A. steamship line, and he spoke a little
English. He informed us that he had orders to conduct us up-country to
a place called Kilimatinde. This explained why our men had already been
taken to the railway-station, whither, it appeared, we were to follow
them. In view of the repeated assurances made me on the previous day
that I was not to consider myself a prisoner, it seemed odd that I was
evidently to be included in the party, but I comforted myself with the
reflection that my detention could only be temporary, and was probably
due to one of those official tangles of “red tape” with which we are not
wholly unacquainted at home.
None of us was encumbered with luggage, and I had only to slip my
toothbrush and tin of cigarettes into my pocket to be ready on the
instant.
We were marched down the corridor and lined up in the prison courtyard.
Then the guard was called out, and eight Askaris “fell in.” S—— nudged me
and whispered: “They are going to give us a parting salute!” But far from
their ideas was any such courteous intention! On the word of command the
eight loaded with ball cartridge, and fixing bayonets, formed up round
us. Then we stepped out for the station, walking in couples, with two
Askaris in front of us, two behind, and two on either side.
Presently we passed three companies of soldiers drawn up in the street.
Two of these were composed of natives, and one of Germans. These latter
were mostly planters and traders from up-country, a large number of whom
had been called down to Dar-es-Salaam in expectation of a landing from
the ships following on the bombardment. They all wore a sort of khaki
uniform with a black, white and red ribbon on the shoulder, and a button
of the same colours on their helmets.
On reaching the station, we were put into one of the waiting-rooms and
kept there for about a quarter of an hour; then we were marched to our
train.
We had a first-class compartment to ourselves, the Leutenant in charge
of us travelling in one adjoining. The train was composed of corridor
coaches with entrances at each end. The seats of the first-class were
arranged to accommodate three passengers on either side, and the backs
were made in such wise that they could be raised and converted into bunks
at night. One of the Askaris was posted in the corridor to keep watch on
us by day, and two kept watch after nightfall, but the remainder of them
travelled on the rear platform. The first “saw” bayonet I had ever seen
belonged to one of our Askari guard. It is stated that the saw is merely
intended for the cutting of wood and suchlike innocuous and peaceful
purposes—but, even if one can bring oneself to swallow this rather
far-fetched explanation, the most elementary knowledge of human nature
will show that, in the excitement of a fight, its possessor is just as
likely as not to use it on a human opponent, and I shuddered to think of
the horrid tearing, jagged wound it would inflict.
I started on this journey with a comparatively light heart, being still
under the delightful delusion that before long I should be back with my
own people, and with an interesting and probably unique experience to my
credit. My companions, however, could not venture to hope for such speedy
release as had been promised to me, so I busied myself in taking down
messages to deliver to their friends and relatives when I reached home.
It is a merciful provision of an All-wise Providence that we mortals can
but rarely lift even a corner of that veil which shrouds the future; such
foreknowledge would in nine cases out of ten render the present too hard
for human endurance. As it is, the Star of Hope shines ever through the
darkest hours, its light a spur and a beacon for man’s fainting courage.
In common with the majority of the civilised world, we never dreamed at
this time that the war could last more than a few months—at most, a year.
Presently, when I had committed to memory and so far as was possible to
paper, all my comrades’ messages, I settled down to extract as much
information and amusement as possible from my novel situation. With the
exception of a few days at Mombasa, which, being a port of European call,
can hardly be considered typical, this was the first time that I had set
foot on the great African Continent.
For some distance along the line from Dar-es-Salaam the land is
cultivated, both European plantations and small native “shambas” being
relatively plentiful. “Shamba” is the Swahili name for a cultivated plot,
and is commonly used in the Colony when speaking even of European-owned
estates.
After travelling for about ten or fifteen miles we came to Pugu, and here
the line runs through a small gorge cut in a range of low hills, and
the scenery is most picturesque. From Pugu a steady climb brought us to
Ruvu, which place is situated on a plateau some considerable height above
sea-level. Looking back from here, one can see for miles and miles over
the lowlands and out to the coast.
There are a number of large plantations in the Ruvu district, consisting
mainly of rubber-trees and sisel. The latter is a species of Agave, and
it is the long, tough fibre running the length of the fleshy spear-like
leaf which gives it its commercial importance—this fibre being largely
used in the manufacture of ropes, matting and similar merchandise. I also
noticed here a plantation of “false cotton-trees,” which produce pods
containing seeds set in a quantity of white downy substance resembling
cotton-wool. This is used locally for the stuffing of pillows and
mattresses, but the fibre is too short to allow of its being used to any
great extent in spinning.
At each station—and the train stopped at practically every one—groups of
natives would gather round our carriage, pointing at us and chattering
excitedly. The Germans made no attempt to drive them off; possibly they
thought it would enhance their own prestige among the aborigines to thus
exhibit some of the “terrible English” in the humiliating position of
captives of the Teutonic bow and spear! However, we did not mind, for
we derived nearly as much amusement from watching the antics of the
spectators as they did from the sight of the formidable prisoners!
The natives were of various types, but all dark-skinned, although some
were lighter than others, and here and there a certain regularity of
feature suggested an Arab strain. Their dress was almost identical with
that of the Mombasa natives. In the present day they are almost entirely
dependent on the European manufacturer for clothing, and, later on, owing
to supplies being cut off by our blockade, this dependence became very
marked, many of them being reduced to going about clothed in sacking, or
any odd bit of stuff—such, for instance, as old Nottingham lace curtains!
Some wisely reverted to the native bark and fibre cloth.
From Ruvu the line still rises gradually. I was surprised to find the
vegetation much less tropical than I had expected. The cocoanut and
other palms, which always seem so typical of the tropics, flourish only
on the coast, or near water, preferably brackish, and so on the uplands,
where there is a long dry season, they are seen very rarely. Except in
the neighbourhood of stations, where there was usually a plantation or
two, the railway ran for the most part through rough grass-land—sparsely
dotted with little stunted trees—or through dense scrubby bush.
About midday we began to feel very hungry, and asked when we might hope
to have something to eat. We were informed that nothing could be obtained
until the train arrived at Morogoro, where it was due at about 3 p.m. The
Leutenant bought us some small wild mangoes at a wayside station, and
these were very refreshing, though horribly messy to eat. On that journey
we learned our first word of Swahili—it was the word for “water.” During
the afternoon we got very thirsty, and we did not care to disturb the
Leutenant, who was asleep, so we said to the Askari on guard, “Water.”
But he only grinned: so then we resorted to pantomime and made motions
of raising a cup to our lips and drinking. This seemed to amuse him
immensely, and apparently he thought that we were giving an entertainment
for his benefit!
Finally, however, it seemed to dawn upon him that we wanted something,
but being a dull fellow he only shook his head and looked bewildered. In
the end he summoned the native sergeant—a most ugly and repulsive-looking
old man, but he nevertheless seemed to be much more intelligent than his
subordinate, for when we repeated our panto he said in enquiring tones:
“_Maji?_” “Yes,” we answered, nodding vigorously. “Bring Margie!” He
departed, and our hope that he had understood was swiftly realised, for
he reappeared with a water-bottle, and, better still, at the next station
he procured from somewhere an empty whisky-bottle and saw that it was
kept filled with water for us.... A humane old fellow, for all his lack
of beauty!
It was well after three o’clock when we got to Morogoro, which
place—after the fall of Dar-es-Salaam—became the capital and seat of
government in German East Africa. We were all feeling uncommonly hungry.
The Leutenant got out and went across to the hotel to see if a meal
had been prepared for us; finding all in order, he sent the little
corporal to fetch us. I do not think I have mentioned the little corporal
before. He was a German—Rickert by name—a short little man, inclined
to stoutness, with a bullet-head and a very pug nose, but a pleasant
expression withal. He joined our party at Dar-es-Salaam station, but we
did not realise at first that he was going all the way with us. He seemed
to be well known, and very popular in the district, for at every station
we had seen him out on the platform chatting with the planters who had
come down to meet the bi-weekly train, or bowing stiffly to their wives.
It seemed to be the custom for anyone living near a station to come down
to meet the train. They were certain to find someone on it whom they
knew, and in this way they got all the news and scandal much quicker than
by waiting for the local news-sheet.
Rickert now came up to us, and making his stiff little bow, said in
laboured English: “Will you please komm?” So we followed him, and
escorted by a guard of Askaris with fixed bayonets, crossed the road to
the hotel. Here a meal had been prepared for us. It began with soup,
which was followed by roast meat and two vegetables—of which we each had
a second helping—and it finished with bread and cheese. The Leutenant
sat at a neighbouring fable, and as we saw that he was drinking whisky
and soda, we were hopeful of getting some too. But plain soda was _our_
portion. As soon as we had finished eating, the guard who had been
standing outside escorted us back to our carriage. Then the train started
once more, and we soon left Morogoro behind. It is, by the way, a rather
pretty little town, nestling at the foot of some high mountains—the
Uluguru range.
When we had settled down we discovered that two German girls had taken
possession of an adjoining compartment. One was a young mother with a
small boy of about two years old, and they had numerous packages, as
well as a parrot in a cage. We seemed to be a source of much interest to
them, for they were continually jumping up to rearrange their parcels on
the overhead shelf, which manœuvre enabled them to look over into our
compartment, the sliding partition being down After a rapid glance their
heads would disappear again, and the sound of stifled whispering and many
giggles came to our ears.
A little later the native attendant came round to arrange the bunks for
the night. The backs of the seats were raised and held in position by
straps, so that in our compartment this gave us a bunk apiece. We drew
lots for the upper berths, and S—— was the winner of the one next to the
ladies; but before he retired to roost the sliding partition was drawn,
veiling the mysteries of the next compartment, and we made merry over his
supposed disappointment!
All the carriages were fitted with wire window-blinds, and I noticed that
at certain points on the line the attendant came round and carefully
closed these. On enquiry I learned that this was done whenever the train
ran through a tse-tse belt, and it was with a view to excluding the flies
and preventing any of them from being carried in the train to uninfected
districts, it having been proved that the tse-tse fly is often carried in
this way from one spot to another.
When it got dark the guard in the corridor was increased from one to
two Askaris, and a small paraffin lamp was hung up in our compartment
to enable them to keep a watch on our movements. We had no blankets,
but presently made ourselves as comfortable as we could for the night.
I took off my coat and rolled it up for a pillow, and then divesting
myself of my boots, settled down to sleep. During the night it turned
bitterly cold, and none of us slept much, though we managed to doze off
at intervals.
In the morning I woke just before sunrise; outside everything looked very
cold and white in the grey dawning; indeed, so low was the temperature,
and so white appeared the stones and bare, leafless bushes, that at first
I thought there must have been a frost during the night. We got up, and
having made the best toilet possible in the circumstances, stamped up
and down the carriage trying to get warm, until, at about 6.30 a.m., the
train stopped at Saranda station.