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ZANZIBAR.
VOL. II.
[Illustration: SAVAGE OF THE NYIKA.]
ZANZIBAR;
CITY, ISLAND, AND COAST.
BY
RICHARD F. BURTON.
IN TWO VOLUMES.
VOL. II.
LONDON:
TINSLEY BROTHERS, 18, CATHERINE ST., STRAND.
1872.
[_All Rights reserved._]
---------------------
JOHN CHILDS AND SON, PRINTERS. .
CONTENTS OF VOL. II.
CHAPTER I.
PAGE
FROM ZANZIBAR TO MOMBASAH 1
CHAPTER II.
MOMBASAH OR MVÍTA 23
CHAPTER III.
VISIT TO THE KISULODI-NI MISSION HOUSE 47
CHAPTER IV.
THE PEOPLE OF MOMBASAH.—THE WANYIKA TRIBE 75
CHAPTER V.
FROM MOMBASAH TO THE PANGA-NI RIVER 104
CHAPTER VI.
FROM PANGA-NI TOWN TO TONGWE OUTPOST.—THE BALOCH GUARD 139
CHAPTER VII.
THE MARCH TO FUGA.—ASCENT OF THE HIGHLANDS OF EAST 183
AFRICA.—PRESENTATION TO KING KIMWERE
CHAPTER VIII.
THE MARCH BACK.—THE HIPPOPOTAMUS’ HUNT.—THE RETURN TO 222
ZANZIBAR
CHAPTER IX.
VISIT TO SA’ADANI, THE COPAL FIELD 260
CHAPTER X.
THE EAST AFRICAN EXPEDITION OF 1857-1859 283
CHAPTER XI.
TO KILWA, THE END OF THE EAST AFRICAN EXPEDITION 329
(1857-1859)
CHAPTER XII.
CAPTAIN SPEKE 371
APPENDIX I.
NOTES ON COMMERCIAL MATTERS AT ZANZIBAR IN THE YEARS 405
1857-1859
APPENDIX II. A. B.
THERMOMETRIC OBSERVATIONS IN EAST AFRICA 426
APPENDIX II. C.
METEOROLOGICAL OBSERVATIONS 433
APPENDIX III.
OBSERVATIONS DURING A VOYAGE OF RESEARCH ON THE EAST 458
COAST OF AFRICA
NOTES TO APPENDIX III. 514
ZANZIBAR.
--------------
PART II.
THE COAST AND THE INTERIOR.
ZANZIBAR.
-------
CHAPTER I.
FROM ZANZIBAR TO MOMBASAH.
Urbis ab angusto tractu quâ vergit in Austrum,
Planities vicina patet: nam cætera Pontus
Circuit, exiguo dirimi se tramite passus.
C. CLAUD, IN RUF. lib. 2. 348.
On Monday, January 5, 1857, began our trial trip, which homely term was
justly written large as ‘tentative expedition,’ by the then President of
the Royal Geographical Society. But a stiff north-easter blowing dead in
our teeth, the crew of the Riámi would not wear round by day, and at
night all showed a predilection for the ‘Safar khoriyah,’ i. e.
anchoring in some snug bay. Consequently the old tub, with knees and
mast loose like a slaver’s, did not make Kokoto-ni, the usual departure
point from Zanzibar Island, till 7 A. M. on January 8.
Kokoto-ni ‘(at or in) the pebbles,’ is an anchorage 18.30 direct
geographical miles from, and north with 3 miles east of, Zanzibar City.
Formed by a bight with a streamlet, and the Island of Tumbatu, with its
little outliers, Manawamána and Popo (in Owen Moina and Benoth), this
roadstead is rendered dangerous during the Azyab, or N. East monsoon, by
a heavy rolling sea and a coral-bound lee-shore. The coast has the usual
edging of sand, clear as crystal, and of bright green mangrove, whilst
an inner belt of darker jungle defends a country, here, as everywhere
around, prodigiously fertile, green, and monotonous. The interior is a
mass of cultivation, manioc and sweet potato (Jezar) from Madagascar,
superb mangoes and cocoas waving in the clear sea-breeze, and limes and
oranges, the latter disposed, as by the Paraguayans, in long rows,
which, at a distance, imitate the tea-field. Clove plantations adorn the
uplands, and the giant Calabash (Adansonia digitata) stretches its
stumpy, crooked arms over the clustering huts. The tree is at once
majestic and grotesque; the tall conical column of spongy and porous
wood, covered with a soft, glossy rind, which supplies half Africa with
bast, will have a girth of forty to fifty feet, far exceeding the cedars
of Lebanon, whilst the general aspect is that of a giant asparagus. Like
the arbutus, some trees will be bare, others in leaf, and others in
flower, all at the same season. When thickly clothed with foliage
growing almost stalkless from the wood; topped with snowy blossoms, like
the fairest and lightest of water-lilies, and hung about with four or
five hundred gourds; ovals somewhat larger than a cocoa-nut, dressed in
green velvet with the nap on, and attached by a long thin cord, like
tassels which wave with every breath of the zephyr, its appearance is
striking as it is novel. Nothing, in fact, after the negro can be more
typically and distinctly African.
Escorted by Said bin Salim and his slave, we visited the village Mwándá.
It is the normal collection of cajan-thatched huts, with wattle and dab
walls, gathering round a little Mosque and grave-yard. There are no
stone dwellings, but scatters of such hovels extend far and wide. The
settlement was mostly tenanted by women who hid themselves, by children
who ran away, and by slave-girls who squatted, combing and plaiting one
another’s locks; these grinned merrily enough, having nought to fear.
The faces were hideous to look upon, with black, coarse skins, scarred
and seamed by small-pox; huge mouths, and rolling eyes. Not a few were
lame and toothless, and the general dress was the ungraceful swaddle of
blue, checked or indigo-dyed stuff. Presently we were addressed by an
old man, carrying a spear, and attired in Arab fashion, of red cap,
loin-cloth (Futah), and Tobe (Taub), or shoulder-scarf. Taking us for
traders, who came to buy cocoa and cloves, he placed a Kitandah (cot)
under the central calabash, the gossip-place of the village, and brought
us cocoanut-water, which here takes the place of coffee. In vain we
offered high prices for meat; geese, ducks, and fowls, however, were
abundant.
After a short rest we set out northwards, to inspect the plantations.
Most of the men were at work in their Mashamba; the weeds had been
burned for manure, the primitive manner of restoring nutrition to the
soil, and the peasant, with his rude implements, was smoothing the
lowlands for paddy. Already the light showers of the Azyab had flooded
the ground, and the stagnant stream which we forded was choked with rush
and sedge. A ‘Tell,’ or dwarf rise, was occupied by a farm belonging to
the late Sayyid; here we were again seated and supplied with mangoes.
This fruit, curious to say, would never fall upon the Prince’s head,
although his courtiers often suffered severe contusions—at least, so we
were assured.
After a long walk, which crippled my naked arms and legs with sunburns,
we returned to the shore, and Said complaining, with a visage like
Falstaff’s ‘wet cloak ill-laid up,’ that never before had he endured
such fatigue, we signalled the Riámi for a boat. It was five hours
coming, the wind blew off shore, and we had some trouble in persuading
certain Tumbatu men to carry off the party of six in a monoxyle, a
single log of wood, propelled by a scarf. A few dates and a dollar sent
them back happy, and the Riámi had used her time well in washing decks
and taking in water.
The weather now set seriously against us. The thermometer fell some 5°
(F.), and heavy showers, mostly in the morning, wetted us clean through,
despite all precautions. Lightning from the N. West appeared; the ‘egg
of the cloud’ showed the focus of electric matter, and tornados, exactly
resembling those of the Guinea coast, made the crew down sail, and
satisfy themselves with one knot an hour. They had a peculiar style of
keeping watch; all sat up singing till 10-11 P. M., after which every
man slept as unanimously. The only waker was poor Said, who with red
eyes and peeling nose suffered crispations when the squalls came on.
About 9 A. M. (January 10) we sighted for the first time Pemba, the
Emerald Isle of these Eastern Seas; and after three days’ stumbling over
33 miles from Kokoto-ni, Pemba channel, with the hills of the Mrima
clear on our left, appeared at 3 P. M. To the right rose the tree-grown
banks, and the verdant coral-ledges, which have given a name to the
Green Island of the Arabs. Except from the mast-head it is invisible at
an offing of 12 miles, this forest-clump emerging from the blue and
buoyant wave, and therefore it was neglected by the Periplus. In A. D.
1698 the bold buccaneer Captain Kidd here buried his blood-stained
hoards of gold and jewels, the plunder of India and of the further
Orient. The people have found pots of ‘nuggets,’ probably intended for
buttons, in order that the pirate might wear his wealth. Thus it is that
the modern skipper, landing at Madagascar, or other robber haunts of the
older day, still frequently witnesses the disappearance of his brass
buttons, whilst the edge of a knife resting upon his throat secures the
quiescence essential to the rapid performance of the operation.
The complicated entrance to Chak-Chak, or Shak-Shak as the Arabs call
it, the chief port, fort, and town, has that silent, monotonous,
melancholy beauty, the loveliness of death, which belongs to the creeks
and rivers of those regions. The air was pure and sparkling; a light
breeze played with the little blue waves; the beach, wherever it
appeared, was of the purest golden hue, creamed over with the whitest of
foam; and luxuriant trees of the brightest green drooped from their
coralline beds over a sea, here deeply azure, there verdigris coloured
by the sun shining through it upon a sand-shoal. But animated nature was
wanting: we heard not a voice, we saw no inhabitant—all was profoundly
still, a great green grave. A chain of islets forms the approach to a
creek, below all mangrove and black vegetable mud, which stains the
water, and bears roots upsticking like a system of harrows; above on
both sides are rounded swelling hillocks, crowned with the cocoa and the
clove. We sailed about on various tacks, and near sunset we anchored in
the outer port, four or five miles distant from the town. On a wooded
eminence rose the white walls and the tall tower of Fort Chak-Chak,
standing boldly out from its dark green background, and apparently
commanded by higher land, nowhere, however, exceeding 150 feet, while
the spars of an Arab craft peered above the curtained trees. With the
distinctest remembrance of Indian rivers, my companion and I could not
but wonder at the scene before us.
Early on the next morning we manned the Louisa, and rowed slowly through
a gate, formed on the right by Ra’as Kululu, and on the left by a high
plantation Ra’as Bannani. It led to a broad, deep basin, where two or
three Sayas, small Arab vessels, not wishing to approach the town, lay
at anchor. After a couple of hours, during which progress was of the
mildest, we entered a narrow creek, bordered by a luxuriant growth of
mangroves. The black and fœtid sea-ooze, softer than mud, which supports
these forests of the sea, contrasts strangely with the gay green of
their foliage, and the place was haunted by terns, grey kingfishers, and
hawks of black and white robe, big as the ‘Ak-baba,’ and said to be game
birds. Here and there a tall man paddled a tiny canoe, and an old slave
woman went to catch fish with a body-cloth, used as a net: she suggested
the venerable comparison of the letter S mounted on ‘No. 11.’ The old
Arab geographers seem to have been struck by the piscatorial
peculiarities of these coasts. El Idrisi (1st climate, 7th section)
informs us that ‘the people supply themselves from the sea without craft
or without standing upon the shore. They use, whilst swimming or diving,
little nets which they themselves make of woven grass; they tie them to
their feet, and by slip-knots and lashings held in their hands, they
draw fast the snare when they feel that a fish has entered it. All this
they do with exceeding art and with a cunning bred by long experience:
they also teach land reptiles to drive their prey’—possibly the iguana.
The tide, which hereabouts rises from twelve to thirteen feet, was then
rapidly ebbing. At high water large boats run up under the walls of
Chak-Chak; during the ebb the creek within several yards of the
landing-place is a quaking bog, which receives a man to his waist. After
three hours of persistent grounding, and nearly despairing to reach our
mark, a sharp turn showed us the fort almost above our heads: we
disembarked and waded up to the landing-place.
Ascending the sea-slope, I was struck, even after Goa and Zanzibar, by
the wondrous fertility of the land. All that meets the eye is luscious
green; cocoas, jacks, limes, and the pyramidal mangoes grow in clumps
upon the rises; the wild solanum with bright yellow apples, and the
castor shrub, rich in berries, spread over the uncultivated slopes;
excellent rice, of which the Island formerly paid tribute, clothes the
lowlands, and the little fields bear crops of holcus and sesamum,
vetches as Thur (Cajanus Indicus), Mung (Phaseolus radiatus), and Chana
or Gram (Cicer arietinum), with manioc, and many species of garden-stuff
and fruit-trees, especially oranges and citrons. The eternal
humidity—páni jo ghano sukh, say the Banyans—unfavourable to human,
fosters vegetable development in a luxuriance more oppressive than
admirable. After a few minutes’ climb we entered Chak-Chak, which, like
a Brazilian country-town, consists of one long narrow lane. It is formed
by square huts of wattle and dab, raised upon platforms of tamped clay:
each tenement has a ‘but’ and a ‘ben,’ and most are fronted by a deep
verandah, where poultry, fruit, and stale fish are exposed for sale by
many familiar faces hailing from Hindostan.
My first visit was to the Wali or Governor, Mohammed bin Nasif bin
Khalaf. In his absence at Zanzibar, we were received by his brother
Sulayman, who lay upon his bed shaking with fever: the house was like
its neighbours, and the verandah was partly occupied by a wooden
ship’s-tank. We then took refuge against the sun at the shed called
Place of Customs, where we were duly welcomed, whilst cloves were being
weighed by the slaves. The Collector of government dues was a nephew of
Ladha Damha, this Pisuji was at the head of some ten Bhattias: they are
readily distinguished by red conical fools’ caps, and by their Indian
Dhotis, or loin-cloths. His reception was far more cordial than it would
have been in his own land, where Banyans are by no means famous for
hospitality to the Mlenchha, or outcaste. We determined him to be an
exceptional man, but afterwards, on the coast, we received the same
civilities from all the Hindu and almost all the Hindi (Moslem)
merchants. Pisu reproached Saíd for not landing us last night, seated us
on cots, and served upon a wooden tray sliced mango and pineapple, rice,
ghee, and green tea. An old Sindi tailor, Fakir Mohammed, son of a petty
officer who had served as a Turkish gunner in Yemen, brought a bottle,
and invited us to carouse with ‘wuh safed,’ that white one—probably gin.
Our refusal to taste it did us good service with the Sherif Mohammed, a
Hazramaut man, educated in Sind, and chief of the 25 to 30 Indians who
compose the little colony. We were visited by the Jemadar, Musa Khan,
who commands a score of Baloch mercenaries, readily distinguished by
close-fitting lips and oval heads in this land of muzzles and cocoa-nut
skulls. They greatly admired our weapons, specially my basket-hilted
Andrea Ferrara, the gift of an old friend, Archibald McLaren, and one
young fellow volunteered to accompany us up country. The Wasawahili were
the least civil; they heard that certain Muzungu Kafirs had visited
their town, and came to stare accordingly.
The good Pisu sent for our casks, and had them filled from the Mto-ni,
behind the fort. This streamlet, some 15 feet broad and armpit deep,
supplies water far superior to that of the wells and the brackish
produce of the sands near the anchorage ground. Finally, he accompanied
us, with the chief notables, to the landing-place, and sent us off in
his own boat, which he had loaded with rice and fruits.
Pemba is an irregular coralline bank, composed of some 15 or 20 smaller
items, covered with the richest vegetable humus. It is, in fact, an
archipelago growing up into an island. Like Zanzibar, it is a low bank
perched upon the summits of submarine mountains, which rise from depths
not yet fathomed. Its extreme length is 42 miles, from Ra’as Kigomathe
(Kegomatchy of Owen), the N. West point in S. lat. 4° 47′, and Ra’as
Msuka (Said Point), in S. lat. 5° 29′ 30″. The long narrow steep varies
in breadth from 2 to 10 miles (Owen), between E. long. (G.) 39° 39′, and
39° 48′, to which 5′ must be added since Bombay[1] and the Cape of Good
Hope have been found to be placed that much too far west. Ra’as
Kigomathe, the point nearest the mainland, is separated from it by Pemba
Channel, here 19 to 20 miles broad, and the greatest width is 35 miles.
The western sea-board, where calmer waters under a lea land favour the
labours of the polypus, is evidently advancing rapidly, and here the
coast-line is notably broken compared with that of Zanzibar and with its
own eastern or windward coast. In this point it resembles Jutland,
Iceland, and Norway, where the S. West, a prevalent wind, tears to
pieces the occidental shores, and deposits the débris upon the leeward
half. The reefs and shoals, branching in all directions, but especially
westward, are still unexplored, and every ship that sounds does new
work. The height of the Island nowhere exceeds 180 feet, and the soil is
purely vegetable. The streamlets are not worth mentioning, and the
general unimportance of the long narrow bank unfits it for representing
the Menouthian depôt.
A strong current runs between Zanzibar and Pemba, carrying ships
northwards sometimes at the rate of 50 miles per diem. The principal
settlement, Chak-Chak, is built upon a deep inlet on the western coast,
where the Island is narrowest. The distance is some 17 direct
geographical miles (or 25 by course) north with easting from the
southern Cape, and the approach is winding and difficult. The most
objectionable part of the Green Isle is its climate. No man here is in
rude health, laming ulcers on the legs exactly resembling syphilitic
sores, stomach pains, and violent indigestions afflict new comers:
hydrocele is a plague, and the population is decimated by small-pox,
dumb agues, and bilious fevers.
In its palmy day many Portuguese, merchants and soldiers, settled at
Pemba upon large plantations, and with the abundance of water and
provisions, amongst which cattle are specified, consoled themselves for
the insalubrity of the atmosphere. At the end of the sixteenth century,
when that celebrated corsair the Amir Ali Bey had raised the coast, the
‘Moors’ of Pemba revolted against their Shaykh, and murdered the foreign
settlers—men, women, and children. The chief, with a few fugitives, took
refuge in Melinde, and was speedily restored to his own by the
Captain-Major Thomé de Souza Coutinho, brother of the Viceroy of India.
He was again expelled shortly after A.D. 1594; and this time he retired
to Mombasah, became a Christian, and married a Portuguese orphan: he
eventually visited India with D. Francisco da Gama, who also promised to
restore him, and the promise seems to have been kept. In December, 1608,
the Island was visited by Capt. Sharpey, en route to India, and the
treacherous Europeans persuaded the ‘Moors’ to attack his crew, after
inveigling them on shore by a show of hospitality. Hence the ‘villanies
of Pemba’ became a proverb on the coast.
A steep path, a yellow streak on the dark green ground, leads up to the
Fort, which, situated beyond the settlement, commands the creek and
landing-place. It is evidently an old Portuguese building. The frontage
is a loop-holed curtain of masonry, flanked on the right by a round
tower—a mere shell—and on the left by a square turret, pent-housed, with
cajan mats. A few iron guns, honeycombed to the core, lie around the
walls; the entrance is dilapidated; and the place, now undergoing
repairs, is like most ‘Forts’ in these regions, about as capable of
defence as the castled crag of Drachenfels. Hearing the people of Pemba
call it, as at Maskat, ‘Gurayza,’ evidently a corruption of Igreja, and
now meaning a combination of fortress and jail, I inquired about
Portuguese ruins, and heard of two deserted churches, in one of which a
bit of steeple is still standing. The Lusitanians, in later times, long
made the Green Isle one of their principal slave-depôts: even in 1822
their ships traded regularly to Chak-Chak. I did not visit the ruins,
which are said to be distant one day’s march: there is nothing to
interest man in the relics of the semi-barbarous European rule. The
Island also boasts of a single mosque. The Pemba men pray at home, and
they are said to pray little. The population is held to be half that of
Zanzibar, upon less than two-thirds, perhaps only one-half, of the area;
but this appears a considerable exaggeration.
[Illustration: CHAK CHAK FORT (PEMBA ISLAND).]
Pemba supplies her bigger sister-isle with a little excellent ghee and
poor rice. The principal exports are cocoas and cloves; and here, as
every where along the coast, cowries are plentiful. Bullocks, reared on
the island, cost from $6 to $10; sheep, brought from the mainland, $3 to
$4; and goats, which are rare and dear, from $7 to $9. Cash is evidently
not wanting. Fowls are sold at 20 to 23 for $1—half the price of
Zanzibar,—and eggs are very cheap, two or three being procured for a
pice. The people complain that this year all provisions are
exceptionally dear. The Banyans, who make Pemba their head-quarters,
demand high agio for small change, giving only 111 pice for the German
crown, whereas 128 is the legal rate at the capital. They also regulate
the price of provisions according to the Zanzibar market. They have
different weights and measures—the Kaylah, for instance, is greater—and,
as usual in these regions, they keep the gross amount of exports and
imports a profound secret.
Our gallant captain of the beard—‘the Lord have mercy upon him for a
hen!’—determined to doze away the day, and to pass a snug sleepy night,
anchored in some quiet bight. His crew also, although living upon Jack
fruit, and supplied with only two skins of fresh water, grumbled
exceedingly when I ordered a δρομος νυχθημερος. For a whole day they had
tacked about the creek and basin till the shades of evening fell, and
force was required to keep the canvas aloft. Presently, when running out
of Pemba, grave doubts and misgivings about the wisdom of the proceeding
came over me as the moonless night fell like a pall, and, exaggerated by
the dim twinkling of the stars, rose within biscuit-toss the silhouettes
of islet and flat rock, whence proceeded the threatening sounds of a
‘wash.’ Soon, however, emerging from the reefs, we smelt sea air, and we
felt with pleasure the throb of the Indian Ocean.
During the three days that followed our patience was sorely tried. The
sky was now misty, hiding the shore, so that sometimes we went south
instead of north; then the spitting deepened to heavy rain, whilst the
thermometer stood at 83° (F.). The Azyab or N. East wind, high and
contrary, blew great guns, and a strong current set clean against us.
The combing sea, with waves raised some five feet, was most unpleasant
during the long moonless nights: on this coast there are more shoals and
coralline reefs than harbours, and the lee-shore, within a few yards of
which we were periodically drifted, was steep to, with rocky banks and
bars. Mariners rarely sail by night, except before a fair and steady
wind, and in the open roadsteads they are ill-defended from the strong
N. East monsoon. We long sighted the two high hummocks called Wasin
Peaks, and we were compelled to ride at anchor off Gasi Bay, the
strained old Riami creaking at every timber, and rolling gunwales under.
Pleasant scenes were the rule. Mutton-livered Saíd, groaning and
weeping, started up every half-hour during that ‘black night,’ and
screamed with voice altered by violent flesh-quake, till he makes us all
nervous as himself. The captain, sitting on the Zuli (deck), cried, Rih!
Rih!—wind! wind!—asked what could be done, and more than once, as we
were driven on towards a reef, definitively declared the Riami lost. The
sailors, green and yellow with hard work and hunger, tacking out with
the Barri (land breeze), and in with the Azyab, would not bale except
under the stick. The iron boat sinking once, and twice snapping her
painter in the long rolling sea, gave us abundant trouble. At last, as a
thick cloud veiled Jupiter and Venus, a cry arose that she had again
broken loose; and we resolved to make Mombasah, trusting that Tate would
restore her. More than once we thought of landing, and of walking along
the shore to our destination: for if all was unpleasant outside the
‘Beden,’ the inside, with its atmosphere of cockroaches, bilge water,
and rotting wood, was scarcely more attractive. Hitherto, from the
moment of our leaving England, the expedition had met with little but
ill luck.
At length, on January 16th, after long and wistfully gazing, as the mist
rose, at the three conical heads, which the Portuguese call ‘Corôa de
Mombaça,’ and when almost despairing of reaching them, the wind suddenly
became favourable, and we were driven round Ra’as Betani into the
land-locked harbour, right joyful to cast anchor opposite English Point,
and to pass the quiet night of which we had disappointed our crew at
Pemba Island.
The run into Mombasah was truly characteristic of Africa. The men hailed
us from afar with the query, ‘What news?’ We were unmercifully derided
as Whites by the black nymphs, bathing in the costume of Camoens’
Nereids. And the sable imps, sunning themselves upon the white sand,
shouted the free-and-easy Muzungu—‘Europeans!’
I was not a little astonished at the first sight of this ‘indomitable
village,’ whose history is that of the whole East African coast. Can
this paltry settlement have been the capital of the King of the Zing,
concerning whom Arab travellers and geographers have written such
marvels? Is this the place whose stubborn patriotism and turbulent
valour rendered her for nearly two centuries a thorn in the side of the
Portuguese? that gave them more trouble than all the 2000 miles of
shore? that allowed herself to be burnt three times to the ground, and
that twice succeeded in massacring an enemy whom she had failed to
expel? Can this miserable village have produced heroes, the Samson-like
Ahmad bin Mohammed; the generous and chivalrous Abdullah bin Ahmad, and
Mubarak, whose daring valour displayed during the war against Sayyid
Said, still lives in popular song? Of the second named a story is told,
which might belong to the knightly days of Europe. During the siege of
Lamu, where, by-the-by, he lent his shoulders as a scaling-ladder to his
father’s soldiers, the young chief received a poulet from a fair friend,
containing these words: ‘I hear that under our walls is a person named
Abdullah; if he be the man I love, he will not remain so near me without
claiming my hospitality!’ To hear was to obey. The Mazrui, taking his
trusty sabre, proved himself capable of the perilous enterprise, and
after returning to his father’s camp, he sent a slave to the governor
with the simple message: ‘Last night I slept in Lamu, and right soon I
will sleep in it with all my men.’
[Illustration: MOMBASAH FORT]