To come back, after this long digression on the life of a war
correspondent, to the Ashanti campaign, upon which the subject of this
memoir had now embarked, it may be taken quite as a matter of course
that two such men as Henry Stanley and George Henty, bound on the same
mission on behalf of the _New York Herald_ and the London _Standard_,
should be on intimate terms together, the more especially as they were
both men who loved being afloat, and in the pursuit of business let
nothing in the way of danger stand in their way.
It was not surprising then that when the war correspondents were
impatiently waiting for progress to be made by the expedition, such as
would call them to the front and give stirring work for their pens to
record, Stanley, with his customary defiance of risks when attempting an
adventure, and being in want of a companion, should turn to his
colleague Henty and ask him if he would take a turn with him along the
coast in his yacht. It need hardly be said what was Henty's answer.
The very word yacht was sufficient to make him accept eagerly, and he
immediately acquiesced, delighted with the chance of a run of some
seventy miles along the African shore from Cape Coast to Addah. At the
time he was only aware that Stanley had brought out a small vessel at
the cost of his newspaper, expressly so as to enable him to take runs up
the West African rivers, and penetrate where he pleased in comparative
independence. The use of a boat among the great flooded rivers was no
novelty, of course, to the famous African explorer, and at the first
blush, and with such an experienced pilot, there seemed to be no cause
for hesitation, although at the time Henty was not aware in what kind of
boat he was to be a passenger. All he knew was that the vessel was
called the _Dauntless_, and that it was a Thames pleasure yacht which
had been brought out by Stanley under the mistaken idea that Lord
Wolseley's advance upon Coomassie was to be made by way of the river
Prah.
Now, for the river Thames, where it was first launched, or for the river
Prah, the _Dauntless_, which proved to be a little steam pleasure yacht,
or launch, about thirty-six feet long by six feet wide, would have been
admirably suited; but it suddenly began to dawn upon Henty that the
craft in which he was about to take his trip, sailing in the evening and
through the night, was about as ill-adapted for ocean work as any vessel
that ever put out of port, and most particularly unsuited to sail out
upon an ocean so wholly devoid of harbours as is the Atlantic upon the
West African coast.
He must have known, though possibly it did not occur to him for the
moment, that he was in a district where landing on the surf-bound shore
was only possible with the aid of specially built boats rowed by the
experienced blacks, who are thoroughly accustomed to the huge breakers
that come rolling in. Their light boats are as buoyant as corks, and
the rowers take a capsize and the filling of their craft as merely an
excuse for exercising their great swimming powers, regarding it as an
easy task to right their surf-boat and row on again. Stanley's steam
launch, however, was made heavy and unsuitable by the dead weight of its
engine and machinery, to which for a long run would of course be added
heavy clumsy coal by the ton.
In describing his trip, and speaking as a man who is no mean sailor,
Henty says that he is bound, in justice to his own character as a man
who preferred to take reasonable care of his life, to say that when he
accepted the offer he had not seen the boat. It was then lying moored
up the Elmina river, and soon after, when entering into conversation
with friends, who began to expostulate with him about the risk he was
going to run, he felt disposed to laugh at them. One said it was
madness, another that it was folly, and that it might be all very well
for a reckless, venturesome man like Stanley, who dared go anywhere to
find Livingstone, or penetrate the dense forests of Central Africa, but
that the expedition was not one on which a sane man should embark. To
quote the words of the counsellor, "You are an ordinary Englishman, and
father of a family. Take care of yourself and your paper; for if you go
out to sea in that little miserable tea-kettle of a thing, you will
never come back; and we can't spare our colleague."
Expostulations from other friends followed, in the shape of prophecies
of all sorts of evil things, and matters began to shape themselves in a
manner that was not likely to prove encouraging. In his quiet way there
was an enormous amount of firm determination in Henty; but it is not too
much to say that he began to pass through a phase of indecision, and to
wish that he had not given his word. Certainly he would much rather not
have gone, but he was not the man to throw a friend over by breaking his
promise at the last moment. All the same, though, he began to think and
to turn matters over in his mind. Assuredly the _Dauntless_ was a
thoroughly non-seagoing boat; but if Stanley could go in her, why he,
Henty, could go in her likewise, and he was perfectly aware that Stanley
had at once started for Elmina to bring the boat down.
He felt himself nevertheless in a very different position from that
which he would have occupied at home when calculating whether he should
go out in his own fore-and-aft-rigged boat, in a sea whose currents he
understood, and whose waters he knew how to sail.
But, Englishman-like, as the hours glided by he grew more firm and
determined, and was almost ready to accuse himself of cowardice; so that
when about ten o'clock at night he was joined by Stanley, who announced
that he had brought the launch round, that the men were busy coaling,
that the moon was up, and all would be ready for a start at midnight,
Henty assumed a cheerful and gratified expression of countenance and
promised to be there.
Now it may not be out of place to say that even in the calmest weather
the breakers that come booming in upon that coast are quite sufficient
to shake the nerves of even the most stoutly built, and to put out to
sea in a Thames steam yacht, specially built for smooth water, was
enough to make a brave man think twice of what he was about to do.
However, Henty put together a few necessaries, and was prepared for the
start when some friends dropped in ready to shake hands with him, and to
assure him encouragingly that this was a final good-bye; then he started
for the beach, with the roar of the breakers thundering in his ears.
There was a little delay as he joined Stanley at the place from which
the surf-boat was to start, to be rowed out to where the steam yacht was
lying, for the coal had not yet all come down; but after about half an
hour the final sacks were brought down and placed in the bottom of the
boat, he and Stanley took their places, the black rowers ran the light
craft out, sprang aboard, and began to paddle, and fortunately they got
through the line of breakers without a wetting. Then they made towards
the tiny launch, which, as they rose high upon the swell, before
dropping down into the trough of the sea, they could perceive showing a
light about a quarter of a mile off the shore.
And now it was that Henty could see clearly what manner of vessel it was
in which he was to make his voyage. For about six feet at either end
she was decked, with the engine and boiler taking up half the remaining
space, but just leaving a cockpit of about six feet long at either end.
When Henty boarded her he found that these open spaces were for the time
being piled full of coal, of which ponderous awkward lading the little
vessel had somewhere about two tons on board, and this was quite enough
to bring her down within a few inches of the water. In fact, when steam
was turned on, the water was awash over the after-deck, a state of
affairs pretty startling for any but the most reckless.
As a matter of course, Henty (a businesslike and thorough seaman, who
knew what he was about in the management of a sailing boat) must have
set his teeth hard; but war-correspondent-like, he was ready to make the
best of things, and after running his eye over the little steamer in the
moonlight, he cheered himself with the thought that, as they went on,
the weight of the coal would gradually grow less, and the launch become
lighter in the water.
It was past the time for starting, so the anchor was soon drawn up, the
little engine commenced to pant and rattle away merrily, while the
lights upon the shore began to grow faint, for, in spite of being
heavily laden, the steam launch showed herself worthy of her name,
rising easily over the long heavy Atlantic swell. To Henty's great
satisfaction it seemed to be time to enjoy a calm and thoughtful pipe,
for it was at once apparent that unless the wind freshened and made the
sea get up, and this was only probable in the event of a hurricane,
there was no cause for any uneasiness as to the safety of the little
yacht.
In about half an hour they had settled down, for Henty was thoroughly at
home on board the smallest of craft, and loved to see things ship-shape.
Thick mats were spread over the blocks of coal, rugs were unrolled, and
preparations were made for indulgence in the ever-welcome cup of tea.
The crew, all told, were only six in number. Stanley, the skipper; an
English lad, who acted as his amanuensis and general help; the engineer,
two black boys, who acted as servants and assistant stokers; and Henty
himself. The last mentioned immediately began to talk business, and was
for the time being the most important man on board, for it was not in
him to be aboard a vessel of any kind without being ready to consider
where their bearings lay and what effect the local currents would have
upon their course.
Things were a little haphazard on board a vessel made only for steering
by the shore, for the most part at the mouth of a river, so they had
only a pocket compass. Quite nautically, Henty says that he knew that
their course was slightly to north of east; but all the same it seemed
extremely doubtful whether they ought to steer by such bearings, for
they had no means of knowing how far the iron of the engine would affect
the compass; "and besides, as there was a strong set of the current on
the shore," he continues, "we agreed to steer by the land."
He goes on philosophically to say that steering by the land is simple
enough by daylight, but at night, situated as they were, it was no easy
matter, for though the moon was up, the customary African haze hung on
the water and rendered the outline of the coast so indistinct that it
was difficult in the extreme to judge the exact distance. Sometimes,
too, the land lay so low that they could see little besides the white
line of the surf, with here and there the head of a palm-tree. Once or
twice, feeling that it was necessary to go cautiously, steam was turned
off, and they stopped a few minutes to oil heated bearings or to tighten
a nut; and then in the stillness of the night the loud roar of the surf
seemed startlingly near.
Then on again and on, not knowing what was to be their fate, for there
was always the possibility that they might be carried by a current too
near one of the breakers and then be caught up, borne along at a
tremendous rate, till, striking upon the sand, the little vessel would
be rolled over and over, prior to being cast ashore a complete wreck.
In this way they steamed through the dull half-transparent haze, a
feeling of ignorance and helplessness troubling the man to whom the
navigation was most strange.
They took it in turns to steer, and the one who was off duty was
supposed to take a nap; but Henty says quietly, "I do not think there
was much sleep on board the _Dauntless_, and there was a general
satisfaction when the morning broke."
The general idea of a reader is that the West Coast of Africa is a land
where the surf rushes in over the cast-up sand to where the dull
olive-green of the weird-looking mangrove fringes the shore. But
between Cape Coast Castle and Accra, although the seashore lies flat for
a few miles inland, it, for the most part, impressed Henty as a
beautiful undulating country, with the hills rising occasionally from
the very edge of the sea and attaining at times a thousand feet in
height, the highest eminence in the neighbourhood being double that
elevation.
And yet, he says, this beautiful hilly portion of the coast is as
unhealthy as, if not worse than, the low shores with their mango swamps.
This evil repute is said to apply most strongly to parts where the land
is rich in gold, and it deters the adventurous who are disposed to
exploit the precious metal. There is no doubt about its presence, and
abundance might be had, but gold is too dear at the cost of life; and
though it might be considered that the native black would prove immune
if employed at gold-digging, it has been demonstrated again and again
that the fever--the malaria--that is set free as soon as the earth is
disturbed, is just as fatal to the black as to the white. The latter,
with a smattering of science, attributes it to the disturbance of the
soil and the setting at liberty of the germs of disease buried therein,
and points to the fact that where new plantations of coffee, cinchona,
or india-rubber are being made almost anywhere in the Malay Peninsula,
the effects are, at the first cultivation of the soil, precisely the
same, though in time, when the ground has been stirred again and again,
it becomes healthy.
The West Coast black, however, has a very different theory, which he
will freely impart, but with an almost awestricken whisper. Death comes
to anyone who digs for gold, because it is fetish. It is of no use to
laugh at his superstition. He knows that this is the case, and if any
careless, contemptuous personage ridicules his superstition, he is
angered; if a more rational explanation is propounded, he pities the
enquirer's ignorance. It is fetish, and fatal. Fatal enough, but
unfortunately the horrible fetish belief is utilised in connection with
poison and the destruction of an enemy. Hence the power of the Obeah
man, the impostor-like native priest, witch-doctor, or medicine man.
This fetish idea lingers still in the West Indies, where it has been
handed down by the early unfortunate slaves from the West Coast, who
formed the trade of the old plantation times.
This by the way. There were no further troubles about the steering in
the bright morning sunshine, and Henty spent his time probably dreaming
of future stories and mentally describing the beauty of the plains and
hills. Birds abounded as they drew near to Accra, and they caught sight
of little African antelopes dashing across the plains. For in this
neighbourhood horses, mules, and oxen can live; and, in fact, the town
itself is one of the most healthy along the coast, while, strange
anomaly, it is one of the filthiest.
Upon reaching Accra in safety the engineer discovered that the intense
saltness of the water had encrusted up the gauge, rendering it necessary
to blow out the boiler, allow it to cool, and fill it again before
proceeding. So the _Dauntless_ was moored to a hawser from the stern of
one of the ships at anchor. While leaving the engineer to put all
right, the two correspondents prepared to go ashore and see what the
town was like. Henty found time to note the tremendously rampant
population of pigs, which, with the help of dogs and fowls, were the
scavengers of the place. He makes no allusion, however, to the quality
of the pork, but goes on to discourse upon the intense love of the women
of the place for beads. These ranged from the tiny opaque scraps of all
colours used by children for their dolls, to cylinders of variegated
hues, yellow being the favourite, which were sometimes as long as the
joint of one's thumb and as thick round. The women wear these round the
wrist, round the neck, and round the loins, while the occupation of
threading the lesser beads is one of their greatest pleasures.
At seven the next morning they started back, congratulating themselves
that they had met with no serious accident. But they were not fated to
escape scot free, for on their return journey it was found that the
rudder was gradually losing its power, proving at last to be broken, and
when at length Addah was reached, and the _Dauntless_ made fast to the
stern of one of the vessels, they had to whistle for nearly half an hour
before any effort was made to send out a surf-boat. When at last one
was on the way, they began to understand the reluctance of the boatmen
to make the trip, for over and over again, as the boatmen strove to
cross the breakers, their vessel was thrown almost perpendicularly into
the air, so that only a foot or so of the end of the keel touched the
water. To quote Henty's own words:--
"As we watched she still struggled on, though she was so long in getting
through the hurtling foam that we began to fear that the men would give
it up as being impracticable; but at last they got outside the surf, to
lie upon their oars, utterly exhausted and waiting to recover from their
exertions, when they rowed out to where we lay and took us on board.
"Nothing could have been better than the way in which they managed the
landing. They hung upon their oars as we watched them breathlessly, and
then, keen-eyed and watchful as they waited their time, they caught the
exact moment when one of the breakers was, as it were, balancing itself
as if waiting to pounce upon the surf-boat and its occupants.
"It was a race between man and nature, and man won, for the black
boatmen seized the exact time, and then went at it with racing speed.
Their steersman was one of the finest specimens of the negro I have ever
seen. Nothing could be finer than his attitude as he stood upon the
seat in the stern, one hand resting upon the long steering-oar, while in
the other he held his cap.
"For some time he stood half-turned round, gazing keenly seaward, while
the boat lay at rest just outside the line of breakers. Then all at
once he waved his hat and gave a wild shout, which was answered by his
crew, and every man plunged his oar into the water, rowing desperately,
while their helmsman cheered them on with his frantic shouts.
"How they pulled! And it seemed in vain, as if we had started too late,
for a gigantic wave was rolling in behind us, looking as if it were
about to curl over, break into the stern, and sweep us from end to end.
"But the boatmen knew what they were about. They rose upon the wave
just as it was turning over, and in an instant they were sweeping along
a cataract of white foam with the speed of an arrow. The next wave was
smaller, but it carried them onward, and before a third that had been
pursuing them hard could reach the boat, they were run up on the
dripping sand.
"Just then a dozen men rushed out to meet them. The occupants of the
boat threw themselves anyhow upon their shoulders, and directly after
they were high and dry upon the sands."