grand,” and yet be impassable to a donkey. Nevertheless, about that time
they began using donkeys on the road to Efulen, so much had the roads
been improved in the intervening years, and they have been using them
more and more since that time. There is difficulty, however, in getting
them over the streams and ravines, and I am not sure whether they are
used to advantage in the wet season.
Only experience will teach a man to walk the bush-road with the least
effort; and some never learn. I can remember yet how on that first
morning I shrunk from the water and the mud, trying to keep my feet dry
and my clothes clean. I think Mr. Kerr had more sense from the beginning.
I, however, was in a state of rigidity, both physical and mental, that
would soon have exhausted me. But after a while a kindly Providence
took me in hand, sending upon me a rapid succession of blessings in
disguise. The mud lay deep in the path and I was trying to straddle it as
I walked, when, as I sprang forward to clear a wider space, some demon
was evidently permitted to catch my foot and throw it up, with the result
that I landed full length on my back in the mud. A few minutes later
the same impalpable enemy tripped me and I fell headlong on my stomach.
Still later we reached a broad, black, quiescent pond of water of the
consistency of molasses.
“Can you swim?” said Dr. Good to me; “I forgot to ask you that.”
“Yes,” said I, thinking of the glowing description he had given me of the
road, “there were several things you forgot to ask me, and some things
you forgot to tell. But even if I could not swim in clear water, I could
probably swim in that pond.”
We plunged in and were able to wade through it.
Shortly after this a drenching rain fell, a tropical downpour, that wet
us to the skin. In this rain we stood and ate our first lunch, some fresh
biscuits which one of the ladies at Batanga had baked that morning,
saying as she tied them up for us in heavy oil paper, that it would be
the last food of that sort that we would taste for a long time. But when
the rain came on, the native carrier who had them in charge appropriated
the oil paper to carry his shirt in, leaving the biscuits exposed to
the rain. As we stood eating them while it still rained, it was with
mitigated sorrow we reflected that it would be the last of that sort we
would taste for a long time. I will admit that this was a dreary outset,
but it was not unfortunate. My tenderfoot rigidity had completely relaxed
for the remainder of the day. I cared not what happened afterwards, and
walked without timidity, fearing neither mud nor water, nor height, nor
depth, nor any such thing.
No amount of experience and practice in walking long distances on our
public roads at home will insure success in walking a bush-path. In the
latter there are constant obstructions and frequent annoyances, the
obstructions requiring a peculiar physical aptitude, the annoyances
a peculiar mental aptitude. The native possesses both aptitudes to a
marvellous degree. The average native, carrying on his back a load of
forty pounds, can keep up with the average white man carrying nothing.
Yet, I have no doubt that on a turnpike, neither of them carrying
anything, the average white man would equal the native and perhaps
outwalk him. It must also be remembered that the white man is in a
hostile climate in Africa, and is never normally strong.
We started in the morning as soon as it was light enough to see the
path, that is, about six o’clock, and walked eight or nine hours a day,
stopping an hour at noon. We walked at a very rapid pace, almost on a run
where the path would permit. About four o’clock we stopped for the day,
usually at a camping-ground made by the natives in carrying produce from
the interior. These camps were open glades surrounded by the forest wall
and ceiled by the blue sky.
Two or three nights we camped beside a flowing stream, a hidden brook,
that “all night to the sleeping woods sang a quiet tune.”
After sitting ten minutes I followed along a short distance till I found
an inviting spot where the pellucid stream widened and spread over a sand
bottom, and there, all mud-bespattered, perspiring, weary and sore, I lay
down in the cool, running stream, with my clothes on. Does the reader
know what luxury is? Certainly not, unless after eight or nine hours of
walking and wading over such a road he has lain down in a cool stream
with his clothes on. I turn my face to one side and then the other, and
let the flowing water caress my cheek, and as it washes away the mire
from my clothing, it also soothes the weary limbs and sore joints and
smoothes out the wrinkles of care; and my heart answers back in a song
to the murmur of its music. This is the ancient Lethean stream in which
the weary and the aged bathed and became oblivious of pain and sorrow.
After a bath I get into woollen pajamas and slippers, and sit down a
little later to the best repast of modern times—an absolutely unlimited
quantity of boiled rice and corned beef. “Is this really corned beef?”
said I; “it tastes like angel.” Does the reader know what luxury is?
Not unless after such a journey he has sat down to such a meal. For
luxury is not something objective in the thing that we enjoy, but in the
keenness of our relish; and that depends upon contrast—in this instance
the contrast of rest and food with hard and hungry endurance. A few
days after reaching New York, I attended a banquet at which was served
I know not how many courses, the richest and the best. Objectively, it
was everything that ingenuity could devise; only keen-edged appetite was
wanting. And I was saying within me to my fellow guests: “Ah! I have a
secret that you know not. This is only a taste of luxury; but if you
would enjoy it to the full measure of your capacity, you must follow me
eight hours through the fell roads of the jungle, bathe in running water,
get into woollen pajamas, and then sit down in an arboreal _salle à
manger_ to a banquet of unlimited rice and corned beef.”
We usually slept under booths made from the boughs of trees which we
found in most of the camps. The most primitive bed and that which we
sometimes used, was made by cutting slender, round poles six feet long
and laying them side by side on two cross-sticks at the head and foot.
The native carrier sleeps on this bed of poles with nothing under him and
nothing over him; but when possible he keeps a fire beside him. We white
men were wrapped in a blanket or two. But the use of such a bed is not
wise when it can be avoided, and it is seldom necessary. More than once
some one unable to sleep had to rise in the dark, find one or two bags in
which loads were packed, spill the contents on the ground (making such a
noise that one suddenly waking might suppose that an elephant had charged
the camp) and spread the bags upon the bed in the hope of subduing the
effect of its knots and depressions and its general hardness. I soon
discarded that sort of bed and preferred to bivouac in a hammock of stout
and stiff canvas, suspended between two trees, with a rope stretched taut
above it upon which I threw a large and light rubber blanket which formed
a gable over me. This was, at least for me, the most comfortable and
luxurious bush-bed that I ever slept in.
But in the early morning of the second day both comfort and luxury seemed
remote and unrealizable ideas. There is a miserable chill in the forest
at five o’clock in the morning that always makes one reluctant to leave
his warm blankets; and on that morning it was raining. After coming out
of the stream the night before, I had wrung out of my clothes what water
I could, and they remained without further drying until I put them on in
the morning to the accompaniment of chattering teeth, for they seemed
as cold as ice. The boys’ fires had all gone out and we ate some boiled
rice left over from the night before—ate it standing; for sitting down
one’s clothes will get next to him, but standing up one can shrink away
from them, or, at least, he can try. After some experience I was almost
able to stand up in a suit of clothes without letting them touch me.
Everything was wet and cold and the branches and shrubs shook water on
us. There is a right way and a wrong way to conquer the ill-will of such
a morning. The wrong way is to confess your misery, to shiver and shrink
and try to save yourself. The right way is to plunge into it suddenly,
get wet as quickly as possible, step lively, and make believe that you
like it. The power of this mental attitude is astonishing, and with a
little determination you will soon be master of the situation.
Before the end of the second day we discovered that the native stomach is
made of the finest kind of rubber. Before leaving Batanga we had given to
each carrier a supply of food for seven days, and before the end of the
second day, some of them had eaten it all. That meant hunger and trouble
for all those “foolish virgins” for the rest of the journey. It also
meant trouble for us. The others divided with them, as they nearly always
do when this happens. But still they did not have enough and all were
hungry before the end of the journey. In consequence they were too weak
to carry their loads. They lagged behind and grumbled continually, and
sometimes they seemed on the point of refusing to go on. The difference
between a good carrier and a poor one is often simply this, that the one
stops eating when he is full and the other stops only when the supply of
food is exhausted.
IV
BUSH PERILS
“By what I have read in books, I think few that have held a
pen were ever really wearied, or they would write of it more
strongly.”—_Robert Louis Stevenson._
Several months later Dr. Good and I returned from the interior to
Batanga, passing over the road at its very worst. It was near the end
of the wet season. For many weeks the rains had fallen day and night.
The forest was flooded; the streams were rushing rivers, and the rivers
had far overspread their banks. Beyond these floods were marshes which
were still worse. Where the water was too deep to be waded, temporary
bridges such as I have described had been constructed, consisting of a
single line of poles extending from one support to another, sometimes
two or three feet under the water, with a rope of vine stretched a few
feet above that one might hold with his hand. These bridges were more
simple than ingenious, and more ingenious than safe. A number of times
the vine above broke, upon which we lost our balance and fell into the
water but were rescued by a life-saving crew of the carriers. For in
crossing the worst places we always waited for the carriers. Nor did we
proceed until we saw all the loads over safely. One or two crossed at
a time and the others, having laid down their loads, stood by to be of
service in case of accident. In one place when we were crossing a rushing
stream in which the bridge was buried two feet under the water, the line
of poles beneath our feet suddenly came to an end, having been swept
away by the current, and we crossed the deepest part on the upper vine
alone going hand over hand until our feet came in contact with another
pole. But this let us down into the water almost to our necks. In another
place, crossing a considerable stretch of water, the bridge was such that
Dr. Good preferred to cross by climbing the trees and passing along the
interlacing branches.
We were seven days on the way between Efulen and Batanga, including a
Sunday on which we rested. I was a convalescent, having recently been
sick with a very severe fever that had kept me in bed for more than a
month, and I was still weak. Indeed, the reason for hurrying to the coast
at this time instead of waiting for the dry season was chiefly my need
of a physician. The first day I walked four hours very slowly and could
do no more; but my strength increased greatly on the way and we walked
further each day.
On that journey we had to use the cutlasses very often to clear the road
so as to make it passable; and one day we found the road so flooded that
we were obliged to leave it and for several hours we cut our way through
the matted undergrowth where there was no road; but it was very slow
work. That same day Dr. Good, in jumping over a muddy place, lighted on a
slippery stick that was hidden beneath the surface and fell headlong. I
was following so close behind that I was already in mid-air when he fell;
and, of course, I tripped over him and fell too. For a few seconds at
least we were a sorry sight. There was a stream near by, however, and we
washed away the portion of German territory that clung to us, and made a
presentable toilet.
But Dr. Good had fallen on a projecting root and had hurt his side quite
badly. It was like him to say nothing about it until, as we stood at
the stream, I observed that he was pale. Then he told me that he had
hurt himself and that there was a pain in his side. He thought that a
band tied around his waist would relieve him; so I peeled a strip of
bark four inches wide from a tree and tied it tight around him, over his
coat, making a bow at his back. Considered æsthetically it left much to
be desired, but it served the purpose. He walked with difficulty the
first hour or two; then the pain gradually subsided, and although he was
bruised, it occasioned him no further trouble.
On the last night of our long immurement in the forest, we camped for
the first time in an open glade where the sun had warmed and dried the
ground, and the wood also was dry enough to enable us to have a big
camp-fire. We kept the fire all night, and for the first time on the
way got our clothes well dried. Not only were they dry; they were even
warm when we dressed in the morning. We were in high spirits and greatly
enjoyed our breakfast. But immediately upon starting out, and before our
blood was in vigorous circulation, we came to a long stretch of water
covering acres of ground. We were greatly surprised at this, for Dr. Good
knew this place and had not expected any such thing. The explanation,
as we found two hours later, was that a little town had just been built
near by and the people, being at war with their neighbours, had dammed
a stream so as to surround their town with water and marsh for defense
against the approach of their enemies. This unsightly and disgusting
place they were very proud of as serving admirably their purpose of
safety.
When we came to the water we waded in and walked on and on not knowing
its extent. But at last we were in almost to our shoulders, and Dr. Good
suggested that I should wait while he looked for the road, for he knew
the way better than I. It was long before he found it and I stood for an
hour in the water. I had never felt any ill effects from wading water,
but now I was standing, not wading; and I had not done any walking that
morning to invigorate me. Before we had proceeded far after leaving the
water, my joints were stiff and muscles sore, especially the tendons of
the heel and the knee, and every step cost pain. But we had the longest
day of all before us, and our food supply being exhausted, we must reach
Batanga that night. It was a day I shall never forget. To the pain of
aching joints and sore muscles was soon added that of exhaustion. It
happened that I had been quoting Heine and passing severe moral verdicts
upon him for saying somewhere—“Psychical pain is more easily borne than
physical; and if I had my choice between a bad conscience and a bad
tooth, I should choose the former.” This, no doubt, is pure paganism; but
now when I was suffering something of the weakness and pain that poor
Heine endured, I am afraid that if I had been offered a bad conscience in
exchange for physical suffering, with the sure promise that I could get
my better conscience back again at the beach, I might have succumbed to
the temptation. Thank God that in the crises we seldom have the choice.
At any rate, Heine did not seem so much of a pagan that day as when I
sat by the warm camp-fire the night before descanting on another’s pain,
and Dr. Good did not have to listen to further moral dissertations on my
part. Hours before we reached the beach my legs were fainting under me
but still we walked on with long strides and at the usual rapid pace,
threading the forest while hour was added to hour.
We did not take our usual noonday rest, for we both knew that if I should
stop walking for a little while I would be unable to go on. We usually
chatted together as we walked, but that day from noon until we reached
the beach, I do not recall that a word was spoken. Dr. Good was too wise
to express the sympathy that I knew he felt. We had always taken turns
in setting the pace; but at noon I said to him: “You go ahead; I am not
equal to the extra mental exertion of setting the pace: it will be easier
for me to keep up with you.”
The last hour of that interminable day was through a grass field where we
were exposed to the sun and the heat. The rank grass was much higher than
our heads and intercepted the sea-breeze. It also cut my arms and face
till I was covered with blood; for I was too tired to protect myself.
Each successive step required a new decision, and an effort involving
the utmost conjoint exertion of mind and body. My teeth were set and I
was breathing audibly. At last we entered a native town and as we passed
through the long street, the people and their chief, Bivinia, came
trooping forward with cordial greetings and hands extended towards us;
but I neither extended my hand nor replied to their salutations. Indeed,
my mind was so concentrated on the effort that it required to keep on
walking that I was only half-conscious of the presence and attention of
the natives; they were like forms moving to and fro in an uneasy dream.
But the longest day has an end. We reached Dr. Good’s house and I threw
myself into a chair while he dispatched a messenger to Mr. Gault who
lived two miles further, asking Mr. Gault to send men with a hammock to
carry me on to his house where I was going to stay.
It is doubtful whether one ever recovers from such an unnatural straining
of nerves and muscles. The muscles in a few days may regain their
elasticity and the joints their suppleness; but somewhat of the power of
endurance is lost and especially the quality of resiliency, the power of
quickly recovering from mental or physical prostration, leaving one an
easier victim of virulent disease; and nerves so overwrought may from
time to time wreak the vengeance of untold misery through all the after
years.
During the following dry season we employed a force of men in making a
new road, the present road from Batanga to Efulen. It is practically
straight, and therefore much shorter than the old road, so that a good
walker can make the journey in three days. Moreover, it follows higher
ground and is more dry. We also cut down many trees along the way, which
relieved the gloom, although the road still passes beneath a leafy arcade
sufficient to protect from the sun. We improved the bridges and wherever
possible made a bridge by felling a tree. But the native roads, except
the few that have been improved by white men, are still such as I have
described. It happened also that most of our journeys were at first made
in the wet season. After the first year, however, that was no longer
necessary, and we began to feel that the pioneer period was drawing to a
close. But I presume that those who now live at Efulen and other interior
stations, in journeys to the further interior, especially to towns off
the main road, if they travel in the wet season, find just such roads as
we first travelled.
The last time I walked from Efulen during my first term in Africa, I
enjoyed the journey. The forest was more dry than I had believed it could
be. The ground was strewn with leaves suggestive of our autumn. Nor
was it dark and depressing as before. Upon the forest-canopy of green,
supported by tall columns of sombre gray, the light danced and played
like sunshine on rippling water and shone through in silvery streams and
shifting golden bars. The forest floor was a humus of soft mould and
light, dry leaves. The low green undergrowth, closing the path before
and behind me, now that it was not dripping with water, was attractive,
and gave a pleasant sense of privacy combining with the subtle sense
of companionship with the vast life of the great forest. For it was no
longer the dead, repellent jungle of some months ago, but a real forest
in which one loves to walk alone, a forest full of mystery and spiritual
suggestion, whose stillness speaks to us in a language that we strive to
understand, or gives, as Tennyson says, “A hint of somewhat unexprest:”
“’Tis not alone the warbling woods,
The starred abysses of the sky,
The silent hills, the stormy floods,
The green, that fills the eye.—
These only do not move the breast;
Like some wise Artist, Nature gives
Through all her works, to each that lives,
A hint of somewhat unexprest.”
In setting out from Efulen we always had a “palaver” with the carriers
which in one instance, at least, threatened to become a fight. Dr. Good
on his first journey before my arrival in Africa had paid the carriers
a certain amount for the round trip; for they had to carry their loads
both ways. One can scarcely overestimate the authority of _precedent_
in Africa. The citation of a precedent is sufficient to justify any
subsequent action that may be to the advantage of him who cites it, even
though the action be flagitious and the precedent only remotely relevant.
A single precedent may establish a custom and established custom is a
despot from whom there is no appeal, and whose authority transcends
moral law. A Kruman, if asked why he does this or that, thinks that he
gives the most lucid explanation when he answers: “It be fashion for we
country.” We had expected to pay our carriers from Batanga to Efulen less
than Dr. Good had paid, since they were carrying loads only one way. But
his one trip had established the amount of pay, and at the first mention
of lower prices there was a storm of protest accompanied by scathing
moral observations. It made no difference to them, they averred, whether
or not they carried loads both ways; they would just as soon walk with a
load as without one, and indeed a little rather. We had no alternative,
so we paid the full price of a round trip; but we stipulated that if at
any time we should wish to send loads from the interior to Batanga, we
should require the carriers to take them without any additional pay; and
to this they cordially agreed.
It was seldom that we had anything but mail to send to Batanga, except
when one of ourselves was going, and then we usually had four or five
loads. But there were always several times this number of carriers. Some
few, therefore, must be selected to carry the loads, while the rest
walked light. It was natural, I suppose, that when they knew a white man
was going back with them to Batanga they should all pretend to be sick in
order to escape carrying a load. So sure as they heard me coming towards
their house in the early morning to choose several carriers, immediately
they presented such a spectacle of suffering as was never seen in any
hospital. It was very perplexing for almost invariably some one or two
of them were really sick and quite unfit to carry loads. On one occasion
as I approached, the scene was more heartrending than usual. There were
means and cries and shrieks such as might issue from a railroad wreck
in which a score of broken and mangled human beings were pinioned by
the wreckage. I found them sitting and lying around in every posture of
pain. Some were nursing sore feet and sprained ankles, some had violent
attacks of indigestion, several had fever, and one had a fit. Each one
was occupied with his own suffering and betrayed no consciousness of my
presence.