Chapter VII: Stay at Say (1)

We soon came in sight, as we rounded a bend of the stream, of a thicket of trees on an island which seemed made on purpose for us.

We landed and pitched our tents.

The most important characteristic of an island is that it should be completely surrounded with water. Well, our island fulfilled this condition, for the time being at least. On the left, looking down stream we could see the principal arm of the Niger, the deepest part of the river, in which, however, the rocks of the bed were already beginning to emerge, whilst on the right was a narrower channel barred at the end by a rapid, beyond which the water disappeared entirely underground. Yet further away in the same direction we could see a little branch of the broken-up river with a very strong current hastening on its way to join the main stream, where I could not tell.

Our island was about 218 yards long by 328 broad. At one end, that looking up-stream, was a rocky bank, whilst the other, looking down-stream, consisted of low-lying alluvial soil, often of course submerged, dotted here, there, and everywhere with the mounds of the termites, and at this time of year completely deserted. A few fine and lofty tamarinds and other trees with large trunks but little foliage formed a regular wood, and afforded us a grateful shade; but the island as a whole, with its ant-hills, its twisted, tortuous, and leafless trunks, and its ground strewn with sharp and broken flints, presented a very wild and desolate appearance when we first landed.

Its situation, however, was really far from unpleasing, for on the deserted left bank the inundations are never very deep, and near to it rise wooded hills, with here and there perpendicular cliffs rising straight up from the river. Nearly opposite to us was one of these cliffs, white with guano or with lime, which looked to me very well suited for a permanent post. Being quite bare of vegetation, this cliff stands out against the verdure of the woods, and from the evening to the morning, from twilight to sunrise, great troops of big black monkeys assemble in it, and hold a regular palaver just as the negroes do. Often at night their cries quite alarm us, and keep the sentries constantly on the _qui vive_.

The whole of the riverside districts on the left bank, from Kibtachi to the Toucouleur villages up-stream, are completely deserted and of bad fame. Now and then we saw men armed with bows and arrows prowling about on a slave hunt, or deer came down to drink. The right bank is far less dreary. Opposite to us is Talibia, a little agricultural village, tributary to Say. We can make out the gables of the pointed huts surrounded by palisades and _sanies_ or fences made of mats. When the millet is full grown these pointed huts are quite hidden by it, and the scene is one of great beauty, giving an impression of considerable prosperity. Women come down to the beach to fetch water, and bathe in the arm of the stream. On market day at Say—that is to say, on Friday—there is great excitement at Talibia, men, women, and children trooping to market with their wares as they do in France, carrying their butter, their mats—in a word, all the produce of the week’s work on their heads.

Above Talibia and the confluence of the third arm of the river the wood becomes dense and impenetrable. A little path follows the river-bank through the tall grass, and during our long stay in the island it was the daily morning occupation to watch from the top of the island who should come along this path, for by it alone could king’s ambassadors, marabouts, market-women or any one else approach us.

Our island was quite deserted by the natives, for though the people of Talibia grew millet on it before our arrival, they would never live on it, or even sleep on it for one night, for it had a very bad reputation, and was supposed to be haunted by devils, horrible devils, who took the form of big fantastic-looking monkeys, and after sunset climbed upon the ant-hills and held a fiendish sabbat.

Without calling in the aid of the supernatural to account for it, there is no doubt that people belated on the left bank were never seen again. Perhaps they are taken captive by the robber Djermankobes, or fall victims to lions or hyænas.

However that may be, the Talibia devils, as were those of Wuro and Geba later, were propitious to us. All these spirits, whether of Kolikoro, of Debo, or of Pontoise, are really cousins-german. Ours were the spirits of the Niger, and the negroes explained our immunity from their attacks by saying, “They can do nothing against an expedition, the leader of which is the friend of Somanguru, the great demon of Kolikoro, and who knows the river at its source, where it comes out of the earth, where no one else has ever seen it.”

I imagine that since our departure the natives of Talibia have still avoided the island. Our residence on it was not enough to rehabilitate it, and probably now many rumours are current about the spirit which haunts the ruins of our camp.

It was really a great thing to be on an island. We were safe there from hyænas at least, and all we had to do was to put our camp in a state of defence against the Toucouleurs and their friends.

The first fortification we put up was a moral one, for we baptized our camp Fort Archinard, in token of our gratitude to the Colonel of that name, and it was worth many an abattis. The name of Archinard was in fact a kind of double fetich, for it gave confidence to our own men, and it inspired the Toucouleurs with superstitious terror. In the French Sudan there is not a marabout, a soldier, or a _sofa_ of Samory, not a _talibé_ of Amadu, not a friend nor an enemy of the French who does not retain deeply graven upon his memory the name of Colonel Archinard, for the present General will always be the Colonel in Africa, the great Colonel whom, according to tradition, no village ever resisted for a whole day.

So we managed that the news of the baptism of our Camp should be spread far and near, and passed on from mouth to mouth till it reached the ear of Amadu himself. No doubt he had some bad dreams in consequence.

This moral defence, however, required to be supplemented by a material one. Two hundred and twenty by forty-three yards is not a very wide area for thirty-five people to live in, but it is far too big a space to have to defend efficiently.

We felt it would be prudent to restrict the camp, properly so called, to the northern point of the island, and taking six termitaries as points of support, we placed abattis between them. Everything was ready to our hands, branches, logs, brushwood, thorns, etc. We cut down the trees at the lower end of the island, which cleared our firing range, though it also rather spoiled the look of the landscape. We levelled the site of our camp, razed many of the ant-hills to the ground, and mounted our two guns, one pointing up-stream, on a huge trunk which seemed to have been placed where it was on purpose, which commanded the bank almost as far as Say itself, whilst the other was placed on a big trunk which we drove firmly into the ground, and would keep the people on the banks down-stream in awe. At each gun sentries were always on guard. Then the unfortunate _Aube_ was unloaded, patched up somehow, provided with sixteen oars, and armed with the machine-gun belonging to the _Davoust_, all ready to advance to the attack or the defence whether to Say or to Dunga.

In a word, the urgent preliminary work was rapidly accomplished in a very few days, and then in comparative security we began building what the natives call the _tata_, that is to say, an earthwork such as surrounds sedentary villages, or a fortified redoubt serving as the residence of a chief.

Even if you had not been brought up a mason, you would very soon become one in the Sudan; at least you will learn to build as the negroes do. There are neither stones, lime, nor sand, nothing but water and more or less argillaceous soil. With that you must make bricks, mortar, and the mixture for graining, if graining you mean to have. The clay is kneaded with the feet, and when it is ready, what are called _tufas_ are made of it, that is to say, flat or cylindrical bricks, which the mason or _baré_ places horizontally between two layers of mortar. The _baré_ sits astride on the wall he is building and chants the same tune over and over again, whilst his assistants silently pass up the _tufas_ to him. I have noticed that all over the world masons and tile-makers are as light-hearted as birds.

Our best mason in this case was a big Sarracolais named Samba Demba, who generally acted as groom to our bicycle Suzanne. When he was at work on the wall it grew apace, and we too grew gay as we saw it rise, for with it increased our sense of security.

When the building went on well, we felt that everything else would go well too.

Our _tata_ was a triangular wall, each of the three sides being from about eleven to sixteen yards long. It was thick enough to protect us from treacherous shots from old-fashioned rifles, and indeed also from the quick-firing weapons which the English had sold some time ago to our enemy Samory. At a height of about six feet and a half some forty loopholes were made, distributed about equally over the three sides of the triangle formed by our wall. Inside, the walls were supported by buttresses about three feet thick, which served alike as seats and places in which to store our ammunition. The building seemed likely to last well unless it should be disintegrated and washed away in a tornado some day; breaches will of course be made in it, parts of it will fall, but I expect, for a long time hence, its ruins will bear witness to the stay here of the French expedition, and to our effective occupation of the site.

I forget what king of Sego it was who rendered his _tata_ impregnable by making human corpses its foundation. In default of such a precaution as this, which we refrained from taking, a few determined men might at any moment have carried Fort Archinard by assault, but they would have paid dearly for their success.

On the summit of an ant-hill, at the top of the longest bamboo stem we could find, we hoisted the French flag.

And in this remote island of Archinard, more than two hundred leagues from any other European, we with our coolies lived for five months, and made the French name, beneath the protection of the French flag, respected in spite of old Amadu, in spite of the chief of Say, and of all their intrigues against us; yes, in spite of all hostile coalitions, in spite of the dreary rainy season, and of the home sickness which consumed us,—in a word, in spite of everything.

The _tata_ once constructed, we were now free to consider our comfort a little, as we had really nothing better to do. Bluzet, who had already acted as architect of the fort, undertook the building of our huts. We each had our own palace, but what a simple palace! A circular hollow rick of straw some 12 feet in diameter, upheld by a central stake, interlaced stalks forming the framework of the roof, whilst ropes were woven in and out of the straw, forming with it a kind of net-work pattern. One little window was contrived in each hut, a mere porthole just big enough to let in air and light but not rain, whilst a low doorway was made on the opposite side to that from which we might expect tornadoes.

Lastly, to protect us from stray bullets, a little earthen wall, some 19 inches high, was erected inside our huts, so that it just covered us when we were lying full length at night. We each did our best to make our own particular niche cosy and ship-shape; but in justice it must be said that Baudry and I were the most successful, for we achieved quite a brilliant result. Baudry’s straw walls were a perfect museum of watches, instruments, medicines, patterns, objects for exchange, and strangest of all—toads!

Father Hacquart’s hut was very soberly decorated. Sacred images were nailed to the central stake, and in the little wall—I very nearly said in a corner—was a cornet-à-piston, which was later the joy of the chief of Bussa, but of which I own with the deepest regret we never heard a single note.

With Bluzet the keynote of the decorations was art. He had draperies of velvet, a little faded and frayed perhaps, at nine-pence or so a yard, with others of native manufacture. Dr. Taburet’s speciality was medicine-bottles, with a horrible smell of iodoform, or, to be more accurate, of all the disinfectants known to science, and carefully protected in a tin case set on a what-not, a souvenir he never parted with, and often gazed upon, the portrait of the lady he was to marry on his return home.

Fili Kanté, a boy in the service of Bluzet, who was not only cook but blacksmith and clown to the expedition, concocted a cocked hat for each of our pointed huts, which after a few tornadoes had passed over them were worn, so to speak, over one ear!

The huts of the men were all very much alike, but two on the side of the longest wall were of course rather larger than the others, and of a rectangular shape. Lastly, we had a big watertight store made, in which we stowed away all our valuables. The canvas sail of the foremast of the _Aube_ fastened to the ground served as a kind of shelter for the interpreters, merchants, supernumeraries, etc., and everything was covered over to the best of our ability with our tents, awnings, etc.

Well, we were under shelter now, and you know what kind of shelter, from the inclemency of the rainy season and the bullets of the Toucouleurs. We had still storms to expect, and against them we were less well provided. We had already encountered a few of them unprotected. We had had plenty of tents, of course, but we knew from experience, that when we saw the preliminary fantasia of the dried leaves on the left bank beginning, the best thing to do was to put on as quickly as possible all the waterproofs to be had, and go outside to meet the hurricane, turning our backs to it, and at the same time tightening the ropes of the tents. It was really the only way not to get it—I mean the tent, not the hurricane—on our shoulders!

It took us a good month of hard work without any rest to establish our camp. Every morning one party went to fetch straw, whilst the rest of us kept guard at home and worked at the _tata_. We were all glad enough when everything was done, but at the same time we were rather afraid of the _ennui_ of inaction, as the following quotation from my notes will show—

“_May 16._—The _tata_ was finished this morning, the huts, a dining-room, and a _gurbi_ or servants’ hall, a kitchen, and an oven of a sort. There is nothing left to do now, for Suzanne is the only member of our expedition still without a shelter. _Mon Dieu_, how dull it will be!”

Truth to tell, we did have some dull days, and no mistake; but of course we should have had them in garrison or on board ship. Fortunately, however, to relieve the monotony of our stay, a regular world in miniature gathered about us, for we had eager visitors, courtiers, accredited traders, not to speak of other guests we might have had if we had chosen.

I must now introduce a few of these people. Two men played a very important part in our existence at Fort Archinard. These two were Osman and Pullo. The former was the man from Say, the Koyrabero who had been waiting for us before we reached Sansan-Haussa, no doubt to spy on us, and who had come down to Say with us on the _Davoust_; a vulgar fellow, without either dignity or intelligence, he played the ignoble rôle of go-between all the time we were in the neighbourhood. Of Songhay race, with a dash of the Fulah in his composition, he had the duplicity of the latter, whilst retaining all the stupidity of the former.

He was physically a handsome fellow, with fine features, as black as a crow, but he was getting old now, and was afflicted not only with tubercular disease, but also with a kind of leprosy, which did not prevent him from shaking hands with us three times a day.

He often came with a marabout named Ali, who was further gone in consumption than himself.

Pullo, or Pullo Sidibé, to give his full title, was a very different kind of man. Tall, thin, with a comparatively pale complexion, he wore a filthy _chechia_ or native cap a little on one side. He had a way of moving his arms up and down like a semaphore, and really rather resembled a big scarecrow in rags. With a mysterious air, such as a Sibyl might wear, he was constantly taking one or another of us aside to some corner, or to an ant-hill or mound, far from indiscreet listeners, to impart in a solemn manner some utterly incredible false news of which we shall have an example to give presently. I must mention, too, the way in which he used to smile when we pointed out to him in a friendly way the mistakes he had made. “Ah,” he would say to me laughing, “I shall never go back to my fields as long as you are here, I shall never look after my flock again. You are my milch cow, you are my great _lugan_.”

He was at no pains to disguise the true motives for his devotion, and we were at least able to hope to bind him to us by self-interest.

Osman and Pullo had certain qualities in common, for both were equally covetous of presents, and equally ready to tell lies with imperturbable seriousness; but whereas Pollo carried on his deceptions with the air of a grand seignior and the smile of a superior man, such as a Fulah might wear who had been brought in contact with the Tuaregs, Osman showed his avarice and venality without the slightest attempt at disguise.

The two enjoyed a monopoly of the news, generally false, as I have already said, brought to us from the Say market. They hit upon another dodge too, and a very lucrative one; this was to introduce to us envoys more or less genuine, and more or less interesting, from the chiefs of the outlying districts and villages. At first Pullo or Khalifa, as he was also called, worked at this trade alone, and it would be our first amusement in the morning to climb the ant-hill in front of the fort and look out for him. We generally saw him pretty soon, his approach heralded by a red spot on the horizon.

I read in my notes of May 16—“At about eight o’clock, far away on the borders of the wood in the direction of Say, we see approaching the thin figure of Pullo Sidibé, surmounted by his dirty fez, balanced in an uncertain kind of way upon his head. He is followed by a gentleman in a clean white _bubu_. ‘Page, pretty page,’ we cry, ‘what news do you bring?’

With this extraordinary personage everything is possible. I expect some morning to hear him announce with the air of some herald of a great embassy, “Amadu Cheiku! the Emir el Munemin, or perhaps even the Grand Turk, or her Majesty the Queen!”

All went well for some time with Pullo, but when Osman realized the rewards to be obtained by bringing news or envoys, he set up as a rival to our first friend. The envoys, who were generally picked up in the Friday market at Say, now came in pairs, each with his own showman.

After this opposition was set up, a syndicate was of course sure to follow. I suspect, however, that if Osman sometimes got the chestnuts out of the fire, it was generally Khalifa who ate them.

I had to dwell rather fully on these two fellows, they played such a very preponderant part in our lives, but there were others of secondary rank, so to speak, of whom I must say a few words.

To begin with, there was the acting chief of the opposite village named Mamadu, as at least half of his fellow-believers are. With a clear complexion and an intelligent expression, he was still a regular scamp, ready to lend himself to any treachery. In the Fulah language there

is a word which means “give a little present so as to get a very big one.” I am not sure whether there is any word corresponding to this in Songhay, but there is not the slightest doubt that the Koyraberos know how to practise the manœuvre suggested by the word, and Mamadu was an adept at it. On one occasion, however, his hopes of a present were disappointed, and he was guilty of a very great mistake. We simply had to turn him out of the camp, and from that moment he became all submission to us. Our coolies in their free-spoken way nicknamed him the blackguard Mamadu, and no doubt he had well merited the epithet by some dastardly deed they knew of.

Amongst our constant visitors was one quite small boy, the son of the famous Abd el Kader of Timbuktu, who had been the guest of the French Geographical Society there, a corresponding member of that of Paris, the great diplomatist who had been made a plenipotentiary in spite of himself, and who had acted as guide to my friend Caron in his grand journey. Abd el Kader, when driven from Timbuktu, wandered about in the districts near the bend of the river. No doubt under pretence of making a pilgrimage to Mecca, he lived like a true marabout at the expense of the natives, seducing many women, and leaving many children behind him whose mothers he had deserted. It is said that he is now with Samory.

His little son to whom I referred above was called “the Arabu.” He was very proud of his parentage, and looked upon his father as a saint. Though small for his age, he had a big head of the shape known as hydrocephalic, and was a very sensible, intelligent little fellow, with quite refined instincts. From our first arrival at Say he had bravely come to see us on our barges, and though he was trembling in all his limbs as he spoke, he explained his position clearly to us. We made a great fuss over him, giving him sugar to eat. The gamins of Say looked upon him as partly a white, and partly what they call a _tubabu_. Strange to say, when there was any difficulty with the market-women, who sometimes made a great noise, singing seditious songs and dancing to their accompaniment, shouting out praises of Aliburi or Amadu, it was always the little Arabu who was deputed to go and pacify them. As he expressed it, “the son of an ambassador, I too am an ambassador!”

This child grew quite fond of us. Being on his father’s side of more or less Twat origin, he considered himself a white man like ourselves, and of all our guests he was perhaps the only disinterested one, if we say nothing about the sugar.

Amongst the Koyraberos, it is the children, boys or girls, who are the most attractive. The little negroes are innocent enough up to twelve or thirteen years old, and are often very bright and intelligent. But when they reach the age at which they are considered men and women, the indulgence of their passions brutalizes the males, whilst the females are worn out by the number of children they all have. The fatalism of the Mahommedans gives them also something of the wan expression of oxen who expect they know not what. I believe the negro race might be very greatly improved by the careful selection of children before they are subjected to evil influences. A careful education of such selected boys and girls would, in the course of a few generations, result in the growing up of useful citizens and intelligent workers for the common good.

It may be that the decline in the intelligence of negroes is partly the result of the way the children are carried about in infancy by their mothers. They ride pig-a-back all day long, kept in place by a cotton band fastened above the breasts of the mother, who takes no notice of them even when they cry. The women do everything, wash, beat the linen, cook and pound the grain, with their children tied to them in this fashion. The head of the poor little one comes out above the bandage, and is shaken and flung backwards and forwards at every blow of the pestle. It really is very likely that this perpetual motion injures the brain of the growing child, and accounts for the degeneration of the race.

However that may be, the constant pressure on the breasts of the mother leads to their rapid disfigurement; they look quite old before they have reached middle life. Every one knows that negresses often give the breast to their babies over their shoulders or even from under the arm-pit.

So far the French have taken no steps for the effective occupation of Say, and Amadu Cheiku has been undisputed master of the country ever since the breaking at Sinder of the power of Madidu over the Tuaregs. Dunga was the first place in which the Toucouleurs settled for any time. After their exodus many circumstances combined in favour of their chief. Driven from Sego, Nioro, and Massina by the French, as a punishment for his many crimes and treacheries, he took refuge at Duentza near Dori, but as, like a good marabout, he tried (from religious motives of course) to poison the chief and reign in his stead, he was expelled from the town and had once more to flee for his life. Many of his people deserted him and returned to Massina. Wandering as a fugitive from village to village he passed his days begging from hut to hut, trying in vain to win back the deserters.

The Toucouleurs found it difficult to get a living now, for no one would treat them as marabouts any longer. The Fulahs of Torodi refused to let them pass. Ibrahim Galadio, whose influence was preponderant throughout the country, was not favourable to the Toucouleurs, and they now took possession of Larba in independent Songhay, but the Logomaten, or the Tuaregs of Bokar Wandieïdu, defeated them with much bloodshed and took three hundred of them prisoners.

The toils were closing in upon Amadu Cheiku, who, taught caution by experience, expected to find the French skirmishers at his heels before they were really there. Things did indeed look black for him, when a saviour suddenly arose in the person of the chief of Say, who had won back Galadio and Amiru of Torodi to the cause of the true religion, and at the very time that he was signing a treaty with the French, gave passage to Amadu, against whom he had been pretending to need our help.

Amadu crossed the river, and was hospitably received by the people of Djerma, who gave him the village of Dungu for himself and his people.

Profiting by family quarrels, the wily chief soon became master, and presently took possession of the big village of Karma, and it was not until they were all taken prisoners, that the Djermankobes discovered that they had been warming and feeding a serpent.

Now Amadu is once more a great marabout in right of his inheritance from his father, El Hadj Omar. He is also a formidable military chief, able to put five hundred guns into the field, for he has that number of Toucouleur warriors under him. His word is paramount from Sinder to Kibtachi. Unfortunate circumstances, including the blood shed by the Christians, have won to his side the whole of the Mussulman population, and besides his five hundred guns, he can dispose of from ten to twenty thousand so-called archers or men armed with spears.

His aim, or rather that of his principal adviser, Aliburi, who is really the organizer of everything, seems to be to join hands on the one side with Samory, and on the other with the Sultan of Sokoto, from whom, however, he is divided by the Kebbi, Mauri, and Gober. Moreover, Samory has a brother who was the leader of the column which took to flight after the French success at Nioro. He will achieve his ends unless we can prevent it, for his confederation is strengthened by the fact that all are united in devotion to the Mussulman faith, whilst the various native tribes combined against him, though they are individually braver and stronger, have nothing to bind them together or to lead them to act in concert.

If this union be brought about, the three great slave-dealers of Western Africa—Samory, Amadu, and the Emir el Munemin of Sokoto, will be combined against all comers, and we may expect to see the complete depopulation of the Niger districts above Say. Amadu has already begun his operations down-stream, where the banks are deserted, the villages in ruins, and, where once the Toucouleurs women came to draw water and to wash their clothes, grow quantities of wild flowers and creepers.

Let us hope, however, that the recent occupation of Fandu, and the French policy of establishing an effective protectorate over the negro races may produce a salutary effect.[10]

The only man in a position to make head against Amadu was Ibrahim Galadio, a stranger to the country, whose father had fled there, chased from Massina by the Fulahs of Amadu, the great founder of the ephemeral dynasty of Hamda-Allahi. Galadio has guns, Galadio has a _tata_, he is as strong as the Toucouleurs, and no one would be able to understand his rallying to the cause of Amadu Cheiku, and submitting to him, if it were not for the prestige still attached to the name of that chief’s father, El Hadj Omar. Yet the former Sultan of Sego is, as every one knows, a Mussulman, with neither faith nor belief in any law, stained with numerous crimes, a traitor to his father, cursed even by him, cruel to his women, the murderer of his brothers, avaricious in dealing with his _sofas_, and above all the founder of a heresy.

The Torodi are hand and glove with the Tuaregs, and the people of Say side with them, but the latter are not of much account as warriors. Say is really nothing more than a hot-house for breeding second-rate and intolerant marabouts. No _tam-tams_, no games are allowed in it, and only on account of its past has it some little historic importance.

The Gaberos, the revolted vassals of the Awellimiden, are also on Amadu’s side. They rallied round him voluntarily from the first, but one day when they were beating their _tabalas_ or war-drums, an envoy from Dungu ran through the villages and staved in those drums, which amongst negroes is considered the greatest insult. With him went a herald shouting—“Henceforth there is no _tabala_ in the land, but that of Amadu Cheiku, the son of El Hadj Omar!”

At the invocation of that name so full of prestige, the Gaberos bowed their heads, and very soon afterwards they had to pay taxes like every one else.

The Sidibees soon joined them, for they and the Gaberos both belong to the Fulah race.

Other tribes such as the Sillabees, like the Wagobes of Sinder and the Sarracolais of the Senegal districts, had emigrated here, after intestine quarrels with the Djanaru of Nioro, whilst the Kurteyes, who are Fulahs of Massina, joined the Rimaibes or domestic slaves, and the Bozos or emigrants from Fituka, in the time of the Ardos of Massina under the last of the Askias.

This fact of their mixed origin will explain the courage of these warrior tribes, for the Fulahs of pure descent are by no means remarkable for bravery.

Even during our stay at Say, the Wagobés, the Kurteyes, and the Sillabees were certainly on Amadu’s side, though their devotion was rather lukewarm. Perhaps if they had known that we meant to stay in the country, and had not been afraid of reprisals after we left, they would have declared themselves on our side; in a lukewarm way of course. It is in fact on these mixed tribes, which are neither entirely Songhay nor Fulah, though they are all Mussulmans, that we shall have to depend in our future occupation of the districts under notice.

In the present state of Say politics we must also take the Gurma, the Fandu, and the Mossi people into account. They are all heathens, but unfortunately the Mahommedan religion daily wins recruits amongst these people, who were once devoted to fetichism alone. True heathens, as heathens, are not worth much, for they are cruel, addicted to drink, and credulous of the delusions their sorcerers teach them; but they are worth a great deal more than the Mussulmans, for fetichism may be improved upon and turned to account, but you can do nothing with a Mahommedan.

The policy which ought to be followed in the districts round Say is to oppose the marabout coalition which has rallied about Amadu, with the fetich-worshipping people of Gurma and the lukewarm Mussulmans of Dendi and Kebbi. They can be made a defence against the intrusion of fanaticism and intolerance.

Having now, as I hope, given something of an idea of our surroundings, let me relate how we passed the day at Fort Archinard.

At about half-past five in the morning, the one of us five whites who happened to be on duty, shouted the order as if we were on board ship, “Clear the decks!” There was rarely any delay in giving that order, for it ended the watch for the night, and when one has been walking the quarter-deck for some hours, one hastens to go and get a little sleep before daybreak, for in these stifling nights the only refreshing rest is that obtained in the early morning.

The coolies now lazily bestir themselves. Digui, who is the first to get up, makes them put away their bedding and take down the mosquito-nets, etc., shouting a kind of parody of orders on board ship, “Roll up your kits, roll up your kits!” for they all love to fancy themselves sailors, and are proud of the name.

Then when all are up and dressed, and everything is stowed away, all turn towards the rising sun to perform their devotions, for most of our men are Mussulmans. Some of them, who were but lukewarm believers when in their homes on the Senegal, become more and more devout the further they are from their country. Much of it is mere show, of course. Others really have a kind of instinctive religion, a sort of superstitious terror of the unseen—what may be called the natural religion of fear. In every other respect however, they are brave enough: we have had plenty of proof of that.

I must add here, however, that I have remarked rather a singular fact, namely, that great religious zeal and endless prostrations, with much posing and genuflexion, generally coincide with fits of dishonesty, lying, and treacherous behaviour. One of our fellows, who had hitherto been honest enough, took simultaneously to prayer and pilfering our beads; and a man in whom I had before had great confidence strutted about wearing strings of stolen property on his neck and arms without any attempt at disguise. This put me on my guard. Of course he had every reason to ask pardon of God for his sins and to keep on muttering, “_Astafar wallaye, astafar wallaye!_—Pardon, pardon!” At the same time he had taken to filching goods in the market, an aggravating circumstance of this crime being that he was trusted to look after our purchases.

There were of course some really devout Mahommedans amongst our men. Samba Ahmady, our quarter-master, for instance, always performed his devotions in private, and was a model of probity. Digui too was a true believer, but perhaps I should say of him that he was a philosopher rather than a blinded Mahommedan. He knew how to return thanks to Allah without any ostentation when we had safely got through some difficulty or danger, and whilst admitting that there were such people as bad marabouts, he sometimes talked in a manner alike naïve, touching, and elevated, of the dealings of Providence with man, which is indeed rare, especially amongst illiterate negroes.

Then Ahmady Mody, another trustworthy fellow, had a theory of his own about salaams, and all that. I said to him one day, “Why don’t you perform your salaam when the others do?”

“Commandant,” he replied, “I am too small; I will do it when I am married.”

Well, the morning devotions over, we used to go to work, for there was always something to do; the boats needed repair, or we had to add to the _tata_, to unpack and repack the bales, send out parties to cut wood or straw, and last, not least, to drill the men, and make them practice shooting at a target. We used to hear our carpenter Abdulaye singing as he conscientiously worked at oar-making, and his song did not vary by an iota all the time we were at Say. It was a very monotonous rhythm consisting of one word, _Sam-ba-la-a-bé-é-é-é-é-é-é-_. Samba Laobé, be it understood, was one of the heroes of the native resistance of the French in Cayor, and was killed in single combat with Sub-Lieutenant Chauvey of the Spahis in 1886. I don’t think Abdulaye knew more of the song about this Samba than the word forming part of his name, and though it was a seditious composition we could not be angry with him, as he evidently had not the least idea what it all meant.

Abdulaye, who was a big, well-built Wolof, had but one ambition during our stay at Fort Archinard, and that was to be allowed to go and smash in the jaw of his fellow-countryman Aliburi, a native of his own village. This Aliburi is a tool of Amadu, chief champion of the war to the death with the French, so Abdulaye wishes to kill him if his master is not to be got at. “Aliburi,” he would say, “is a bad Wolof.”

When the camp was cleaned and tidied up, the native traders, male and female, came with their wares, for we had started a market at Fort Archinard. When our occupation began, one of our chief fears was that we should suffer from famine through Amadu’s declared hostility to us. True, there was a village opposite to our camp, and if the worst came to the worst, we could always make an armed requisition in Say itself. But I was very averse to any such measures. They would have been far too great a departure from the pacific tactics we had so far pursued, and which were enjoined by our instructions. I was anxious to preserve that attitude, and to carry out my instructions to the letter. The people at Say seemed at the first very unwilling to sell us anything. They, of course, ran considerable risk of being robbed on their way to us, indeed this really did happen more than once, and the chief of Say, though he did not forbid their coming to our camp, did not encourage it, so that those who did venture asked extortionate prices, thirty-five to forty cubits, or about twenty-one yards of stuff for a sheep, for instance; but we were able to buy good food for ourselves and our men, which was the most important thing after all.

The first thing in the morning we used to see the native traders squatting on the bank opposite Fort Archinard waiting for the little barge worked by a few men, to go over and fetch them. Most of these merchants I must add were women, and I really do think that before they left Say they must have passed an examination in ugliness, for I never saw such frights anywhere as our first lady visitors here. As time goes on I know many discover something like beauty in native women, and there are some who think them as good-looking as their sisters of pale complexions. Even those who do not exactly admire them are interested in them because they are types of a race, but for all that, negresses, like English women when they are ugly at all, are really revoltingly ugly.

Well, ugly or not, our market-women soon set out their wares on a kind of platform a little up-stream from the camp. The _bugnul_, or negro trader, has his own particular mode of proceeding; he does not expect to be spoken to, everything is done by gesture. The _djula_, or merchant, crouches on the ground, with his wares spread out in front of him. The buyer passes along, looks at the wares, and offers his cowries or cloth in exchange. If the price is suitable the bargain is concluded, if not the _djula_ shakes his head, making a sign, signifying “No,” and the would-be buyer goes away or squats down himself to await his time. Sometimes the price is lowered, or the purchaser adds a few cowries to his original offer. There is none of the noise usual in European markets, none of the flow of language so characteristic of them. Each party to a bargain tries to tire out the other, but neither of them wastes any words.

The first price asked by a negro is never the same as that he means to take. A reduction of at least half, sometimes much more, is made.

Not knowing what attitude the Koyraberos might assume towards us in the future, our first care on our arrival at the site of Fort Archinard was to take advantage of their present good-will, and buy in a good store of cereals and animals.

We soon made up our minds what prices we would give, for the circumstances were exceptional, and we wanted rice or millet and sheep enough to last us for three months. That once accomplished, we could afford to think of economy and fix our own prices. The currency employed was white cloth, and my private opinion is that certain commercial arrangements were agreed upon amongst the notables of Say, showing no mean intelligence on their part. They meant to buy up all our merchandise, whether cloth, copper, or beads.

This is what actually happened; as we only gave one or two cubits of cloth for objects of little value, no real use could be made of them, so they were sold again to speculators, who bought them at a very low price from their needy owners, and then hid them away. Nothing more was seen of them during our stay, but when we were gone they meant to produce them, and ask extortionate prices for them.

Our average prices fluctuated in an extraordinary way. We presently superseded Suleyman, who was too much of a talker, and tried other men as buyers, but we really had not a single coolie who was a good _djula_; at last in despair Baudry was obliged to take the task upon himself, and every morning he went to market to lay in a supply of provisions, buying grain and sheep, milk and butter. He was probably the only buyer who took no perquisites for himself.

We got to know personally all the frightful negresses who served us. We talked to them at first by signs, every one using a kind of language of his own. Father Hacquart became very popular amongst them, for he could speak the Arabic employed by the so-called marabouts, and haggle in Songhay with the Koyraberos, whether male or female. Some of the negresses hit upon a very clever dodge, for instead of selling, they gave. They brought presents to the Father, to the Commandant, and to the other officers, such various gifts as calabashes of honey, eggs, milk, poultry, etc., but the principle was always to give a little to receive much. Truth to tell, it is very difficult to refuse to fall in with the idea when the presents are offered in such an insinuating way.

By these means we started a fine poultry farm, and our chickens lived in the abattis of our enceinte. Their life was not altogether a happy one at Fort Archinard; they became too familiar, and, poor things, this cost them dear. Bluzet and I—this is a merciless age—used to shoot at them from a little bow with arrows made of bits of bamboo pointed with a pin, waging pitiless war on those who came to drink at our well, or who dared to go so far as to disturb us when we had gone to snatch a little rest and coolness in our huts.

We made rather an important discovery in connection with this shooting of our poultry. Osman had secretly smuggled some poisoned arrows into our camp, and we drove the point of one of them into the head of a hen which had already been wounded by Bluzet. The result was astonishing, for the next day the hen was cured of her first hurt, and able to run about as if nothing had happened.

This must not, however, lead any one to be careless about wounds from poisoned arrows: some are always mortal. The stuff with which they are smeared consists of wax and _kuna_, or extract of a common gum, forming a very strong poison which, however, quickly loses its efficacy. The best thing to do when struck by such an arrow is to burn the wound immediately, or to inject chloride of gold all round it under the skin. A simpler treatment still is just to fill the wound with gunpowder and set fire to it; but this is rather too Spartan a remedy for everybody.

Our market was the chief excitement of the morning, for in it we could study typical natives, and note the special peculiarities of each. The population of Say and the surrounding districts is very mixed, including Songhays, Fulahs, Haussas, Djermankobes, Macimankes, Mossi, Gurunsi, Kurteyes, etc., each with cicatrized wounds of a different kind on their faces, as is the case with so many African tribes.

The market, too, is the best place for getting reliable news, and besides, the very attitude of the different traders towards each other is a revelation of the state of feeling in the country. If a great many assembled it was a sign that all was going on well for us, that the report of the French Expedition was spreading, and that Amadu Saturu was likely to come to his senses about us. If the attendance at the market fell off, however, it was a sign that hostile columns were being called together, why we could not tell, but probably to attack us; or again some new check was to be put upon our buying or selling. Once indeed Amadu made a feeble effort to reduce us by famine, and our supply of sheep was stopped for a time. But a threat made to Osman on purpose that he should repeat it, that we would go and fetch the sheep from Say for ourselves, was immediately successful, for the next day the best and cheapest animals we had yet procured were brought to us. We never ate better mutton before or since.

Whilst the market was going on, Taburet used to prescribe for many natives who came to consult him. But carelessness and ignorance work terrible havoc among the negroes everywhere. There would be plenty for a doctor to do who cared to study diseases now become rare in civilized countries. From amongst the patients who came to Taburet, a grand or rather terrible list of miraculous cures might have been drawn up. These patients included men and women suffering from tubercular and syphilitic diseases, which had been allowed to run their dread course unchecked by any remedies whatever; many too were blind or afflicted with goitre and elephantiasis, whilst there were numerous lepers. Few, however, were troubled with nervous complaints. It was indeed difficult to prescribe for such cases as came before the good doctor; indeed it would often have been quite impossible for his instructions to be carried out. Many poor cripples came from a long distance to consult the white doctor, expecting to be made whole immediately, when they were really incurable. Where, however, would have been the good of prescribing cleanliness, when one of their most used remedies is to smear any wound with mud and cow-dung mixed together, the eyes of ophthalmic patients even being treated with the horrible stuff? Where would be the good of ordering them nourishing food such as gravy beef, when they are too poor to get it? Good wine? Even if we could have supplied them with it, they would have flung it away with horror, for they are Mussulmans. Quinine then? Its bitterness would have made them suspect poison. They all came expecting miracles, and all that could be done for them was to paint their sore places with iodine, and to give them various lotions and antiseptic dressings, or a solution of iodide of potassium, and so on, from the use of which they would, most of them, obtain no benefit at all.

Taburet was consulted about all sorts of things. For instance, a pretty Fulah woman from Saga with a pale complexion and engaging manners had got into trouble. She had overstepped the bounds of reserve prescribed in her tribe to young girls, and was soon to become a mother. Well, she came timidly to the doctor to ask for medicines for her case, and when it was explained to her that that case was incurable, for the French law forbids the destruction of life, she went away, only to return the next day with her mother. The latter explained that if she and her daughter returned to their village as things were, they would both be stoned to death, or at least, if their judges were merciful, be put in irons for the rest of their lives. The young girl was pretty, many men in her village had asked her in marriage, but she had refused them all. All her people were now eager to revenge themselves on her, and to apply in all their terrible rigour, the “just Mussulman laws.” She had neither father, brother, nor any one to defend her. Her seducer had deserted her, and it is not customary amongst the Fulahs to make inquiries as to the father of illegitimate children.

The people of Say had recommended the mother in mockery to take her girl to the Christians, she was good for nothing else now, they said. If we could not cure her, there was nothing left for them to do but to hide themselves in the fetich-worshipping village of Gurma, where they would lead a miserable life, unnoticed and unknown.

The two poor women with tears in their eyes knelt to the doctor imploring his help, and crying _Safarikoy! Safarikoy!_ and I asked myself, what would be the duty of a doctor in this bigoted land if he had had the necessary instruments for meeting the unfortunate girl’s wishes. Perhaps it was as well that in this case nothing could be done.

All the same this domestic drama was very heart-rending. I tried for a long time to console our visitors. The old woman stuck to her request for medicine, and promised to reward us with everything she could think of likely to please us. She even offered us her daughter, saying that she might remain with us, and could follow us wherever we went.

I told Digui to get rid of them as gently as possible, and gave them a good present to enable them to reach some heathen village where the people would have pity on them. They departed at last, the mother’s tears soaking her tattered garments, the daughter following her, her little feet swollen with walking, and her head drooping in her despair.