Chapter II: From Kayes to Timbuktu

On October 10, 1895, we finally left Kayes. Our packages had been piled up the evening before in three railway wagons, and our party now took their places in the carriages. Baudry, Bluzet, and Sauzereau our engineer, who were to go up in the _Davoust_, remained, and the rest of my staff were the following: the second master pilot, Samba Amadi, generally called Digui, a man of colossal height and herculean strength, but more remarkable still for his zeal, his fidelity, and his nautical skill; the native interpreter Suleyman Gundiamu, who had been to Timbuktu with Caron as one of his coolies; the Arabic translator, Abdulaye Dem, a cunning and intelligent little Toucouleur, more cultivated than most of the negro marabouts; and twenty coolies, or native sailors.

We reached Bafolabé in the evening without incident. A ferry-boat took us across the Bafing, one of the two rivers which unite to form the Senegal. A road some two feet wide starts from the right bank of the Bafing, and follows the course of the other affluent, the Bakhoy, to the village of Djubeba, where we camped on the evening of the 13th.

Thus far our journey had been effected by the aid of very civilized means of transport. On leaving Djubeba, however, our difficulties were to begin.

The carriage, or rather cart, which is used in the French Sudan for taking down provisions and other necessaries to our different stations on the Niger is of the kind known as the Lefebvre, about which there was so much talk during the Madagascar expedition. It consists of a big case of sheet iron mounted on a crank axle, and provided with two wheels. It is drawn by a mule.

Is it an ideal equipage? or is it as bad as it is painted? I do not venture to decide the question. The truth, perhaps, lies between the two extremes. On the one hand, these carts were always able to follow our troops in the Sudan; but on the other, their intrinsic weight might very well be lessened. The chief advantage of metal rather than of wooden carts, is that they are watertight, and that when unloaded they can be floated across streams or rivers, but as I have never seen a Lefebvre cart execute this manœuvre, I feel a little sceptical about it still.

When the packages to be carried are small, compact, and about the same size and shape, it is easy enough to stow them away, but this was by no means the case with ours, and our large packages would be fearfully difficult to arrange and balance in the heavy metal carts.

On the 14th the mules arrived, some of which were to be harnessed to the carts, whilst others were to carry pack-saddles. The whole of that day and the next were occupied in the arranging and loading.

The sections of the _Davoust_ could not, of course, have been carried in carts in any case. I had asked for seventy porters to take charge of them, and these porters arrived in the evening. There was nothing now to prevent our starting.

The route from the French Sudan, so often traversed to re-victual our stations, has been too many times described for me to pause to speak of the stages by which the traveller passes from the banks of the Senegal to those of the Niger. For us, the usual difficulties were increased by the variety of our means of transport, including as they did carts, mules with pack-saddles, and porters. Moreover, ours was the first convoy which had passed over the route since the winter, and the road had not yet been mended all the way. The first few days were very tiring, and men and animals were all alike done up when we reached our first halting-place a little after noon. But every one did his best, and became more skilful at managing, so that in three days after the start our black fellows were as well up to their work as we were ourselves.

This was our general mode of dividing the day. At two o’clock in the morning the blowing of a horn roused everybody; the drivers gave the animals their nose-bags containing a few handfuls of millet to keep up their strength on the road; Bluzet, to whose special care I had confided the porters, collected his people, whilst our cook quickly warmed for each of us a cup of coffee which had been prepared overnight. An hour later we were off, the porters leading the way, our path lighted by torches of twisted straw, the fitful gleam of which made our negroes look like a troop of devils come to hold their sabbat in Central Africa.

Bluzet rides at the head of the caravan, looking back every now and then, whilst two or three coolies run in the rear or on the flanks of our little column, like sheep dogs keeping a flock together. About a hundred yards behind the carts come jolting along on their rumbling iron wheels, whilst the pack animals bring up the rear.

For one moment we file silently through the hush and calm of the tropical night, only broken by the cry of some bird, or the tap-tap of the Sudan woodpecker. But presently we come to a big hole in the ground, there is a shout of “Attention—_Kini bulo!_” (to the right), and from one leader to another the cry _Kini bulo!_ is repeated, and averts a catastrophe by letting every one know how to avoid the obstacle. A great galloping now ensues to catch up the leading cart, and this time the difficult place is passed without accident; but often enough a wheel slips into the bog, and in spite of all the poor mule’s tugging at her collar there it sticks. We all have to rush to the rescue, drivers and coolies literally put their shoulders to the wheel, and with shouts of encouragement and oaths they finally extricate it. It is out again at last, and we resume our march.

Then we come perhaps to what is called a _marigot_ in West Africa, that is to say, a little stream which is dried up part of the year, and is a characteristic feature of the country. Before the rainy season it has probably been bridged roughly over, and a few planks have been thrown down at its edge, but in the torrential downpours of rain of the winter the planks have sunk, and the bridge has been partially destroyed. We have to call a halt; to cut wood and grass to mend the bridge, and carry stones and earth to make stepping-stones, etc., so that it is often an hour or two before we can get across.

But now the horizon begins to glow with warm colour. The sun is rising, and as it gradually appears, its rays, which are not yet powerful enough to scorch us, softened as they are by the mists of the early morning, give a fresh impulse to the whole caravan. One of the drivers gives a loud cry, alike shrill and hoarse: it is the beginning of a native chant, in which the names of chiefs and heroes of the past, such as Sundiata, Sumanguru, Monson, and Bina Ali, occur again and again. The singer’s comrades take up the refrain in muffled tones. Then another negro brings out of his goat-skin bag a flute made of a hollow bamboo stem, and for hours at a time keeps on emitting from it six notes, always the same. The porters also have their music, and our _griot_[3] Wali leads them on a kind of primitive harp with cat-gut strings, made of a calabash and a bit of twisted wood, from which hang little plaques of tin, which tinkle when the instrument is played.

And so we leave the long miles behind us. Every other hour we let the men and beasts have ten minutes’ rest, until the moment arrives when we catch sight amongst the trees of the pointed thatched roofs or the flat terraces of mud huts of the village at which we are to camp.

The mules are unharnessed or unsaddled, as the case may be, and tethered in a row by ropes fastened to one foot, whilst the carts are packed like artillery. Presently we shall take the animals to drink at a neighbouring stream, and then their food will be thrown down before them, and they will fling themselves upon it like gluttons, eating the grain at once, but chewing the straw for the rest of the day.

Just a glance now over the loads to see that all is right. Nothing is missing. That’s a good job! Meanwhile our black cook has set up his saucepan on three stones, and a folding table has been opened beside some rapidly constructed grass huts which smell delicious. Breakfast over, we give ourselves up to the delights of a siesta.

In the afternoon we go and look at the animals, who refreshed by their rest, joyfully prick up their ears at our approach. They are good beasts, these mules, or Fali-Ba (big asses), as the negroes call them. They were torn from their native land, Algeria, huddled together between-decks on some crowded boat, where they suffered much from the motion, and were then taken to Kayes, where fresh martyrdom awaited them. Beneath the broiling sun to which they have never been accustomed, they have to drag their carts, as a convict does his chain. Instead of the barley and oats of their own land, they have to put up with hard and bitter millet, instead of scented hay they get the coarse rough grass of the Sudan. As long as they live—and that won’t be more than five years at the most—they will have to plod along the same road again and again, and cross the same marigots, until the moment of release comes, when they will fall between their shafts, and their emaciated bodies will be thrown aside in the bush, there to feast the hyæna and the jackal, whose jarring laugh and shriek so often disturb the rest of the weary traveller.

Was it the heat of the African sun, I wonder, which converted some of the members of our expedition into poets, and led to such outpourings as I quote below? I cannot say, but these are the words written by one of our party to the _manes_ of the Fali-Ba, who have fallen beneath the burning sky of the Sudan. I pray critics to be merciful to these inter-tropical effusions.

THE TETHERED MULE.

With lean neck stretch’d toward the scatter’d grain,

He scents his provender with dainty air,

Casts one side glance at his companions there,

And beats with twitching ear a glad refrain.

Gone all remembrance of the anguish’d strain

’Neath kicks and blows, and ’neath the scorching glare

Of torrid skies above the hillside bare,

And of the toil that ever comes again.

His banquet ended, calmly he digests,

While o’er him sweeps a most divine repose:

Faintly in dreams his memory suggests

Long lost repasts, whereat his dark eye glows;

Thus, bathed in vague nostalgia, he rests,

While through the bush the sunset tremor flows.

At last the sun sets, the sentinels are chosen and posted for the night, and we gather once more round our little table for supper, chatting now about our plans for the future, now about the past, telling stories which ere long will become so familiar that we could all repeat them by heart and give them each a number of its own. Then one after the other we retire to our camp-beds to enjoy such repose as the horrible mosquitoes, which are so clever in finding the tiniest holes in the nets, will allow, till the morning _réveil_ is sounded on the horn, and we begin another day, exactly like its predecessor.

Such was our life for twenty days, with slight variations, such as the crossing of rivers, the over-turning of carts through the breaking of axles or shafts, etc.

At Kita, however, a very unusual thing occurred: we were able to indulge in a bicycle race. Our own bicycle, which we had called Suzanne, met a rival. After all she was not the first comer to the French Sudan, for a trader at Kita owned another. The match took place near the post-office, on a really excellent course, and Suzanne won, although she was not, like her antagonist, provided with pneumatic tyres. During the race we were entertained by the playing of a band of little negroes under the care of the _Pères du Saint Esprit_. The boys, who were some of them scarcely as big as their instruments, gave us several charming selections from their repertory. Their conductor was Brother Marie Abel, who with his long beard towered above his troupe, and reminded me of pictures of the Heavenly Father surrounded by cherubs, only these cherubs had passed under the blacking brush. You see we were not without amusements in the Sudan.

On November 8 we reached Bamako, and after a day’s rest started for Kolikoro, which was the last stage of our journey by land, for we were now to become sailors.

On the eve of our arrival, as we were breakfasting at Tolimandio, who should suddenly appear but our good friend Dr. Taburet, hot, perspiring, and out of breath with the haste he had made to join us. I have already said that the two barges, the _Enseigne Aube_ and the _Dantec_, belonging to the Niger flotilla, had been placed at my service. Taburet, who had received my telegram, had come from Jenné to Sego, and taken the boats to Kolikoro. Then, eager to be _en route_, he had gone up stream on the _Dantec_ as far as Tolimandio in advance of us.

We plied each other with questions, of course. Taburet knew only one thing, and that was that he meant to accompany me on my expedition. I had to tell him all that had happened since our parting in June, and we made the last stage of our journey to Kolikoro riding side by side, and discussing every detail of our plans.

Kolikoro, or more correctly perhaps, Korokoro, which means the old rock, was well known to me. I had stopped there in 1889 with the Niger flotilla for nearly a year. It occupies an extremely important position, marking as it does the highest navigable point of the central stretch of the Niger. Of course it is possible to go, as Taburet had just done, as far as Tolimandio, or even to Manambugu, at very high tide, but on account of the numerous impediments in the bed of the stream, it is far better to stop at Kolikoro, which has, moreover, other advantages in its favour.

I was indeed glad when we came in sight of the curiously abrupt outlines of the hill overlooking the village. This hill is surmounted by a plateau on which we had camped once before, and there is a legend connected with it and Kolikoro, relating to the exploits of Somangoro, and the long struggle which was at one time maintained between the Soninké of the Niger districts and the Malinké from Kita.

Sundiata was the seventh son of a hunter of Kita and a native woman of Toron. He was stunted and deformed from his birth, and could never go with his brothers to the chase, or bring home game for his mother. She was ashamed of him, and went so far as to curse the boy who did her so little credit. “Better death than dishonour,” said Sundiata. “_Moun kafisa malo di toro_,” so runs the refrain sung by the negroes. He fled to the woods, and there he met a sorceress, who by means of her charms converted the cripple into the strongest warrior of the district. He went back to his father, and pretending to be still infirm, he asked for a stick to lean upon. The hunter cut him a branch from a tree, but Sundiata broke it as if it were a straw; then his father gave him a small tree stem, next a gigantic trunk, and lastly a huge iron rod, which all the blacksmiths of the country had been at work on for a year, but the young fellow broke them all. In face of this evident miracle his father and brothers admitted his superior strength. His courage, his power, and the knowledge of magic which had been bequeathed to him by the sorceress, drew all the Malinké to Sundiata, and Samory himself, who is a Malinké, claims at this present day to be Sundiata returned to earth.

Somangoro, a mighty warrior, and, moreover, learned in witchcraft, reigned on the banks of the Niger. Certain terrible and mysterious nostrums rendered him invincible, and he could only be beaten by an enemy who should succeed in snatching from him the first mouthful of food he raised to his lips. Now Sundiata, who had made up his mind to possess himself of the lands belonging to Somangoro, and knowing the magic power which protected his enemy, pretended to seek his friendship and alliance by offering to him his own sister Ma in marriage.

Somangoro had fallen in love with Ma, so he married her, and took her to his own land. He soon trusted his wife so entirely that he allowed her alone to prepare and serve his food.

Well, one day when the Soninké chief had drunk rather too much _dolo_ or mead, Ma brought him his food, and having placed before him the calabash containing the _tau_ (boiled millet or maize), just as he was raising the first handful to his mouth she sidled up to him as if about to caress him, and, by an apparently accidental movement, made him drop it.

“Leave that bit, dear friend,” she said, “it is dirty!” and she flung it into a corner of the hut. Somangoro, intoxicated with love as well as with liquor, did not take any notice of what the traitress had done. Then the cunning Ma, when her husband had left her, picked up the mouthful of _tau_, and sent it to her brother. Sundiata could now march against his rival.

This is what happened. The two armies met at Massala; the Soninkés were beaten. Somangoro hung his weapons on a tree, which is still pointed out opposite the entrance to the village, and fled to Mount Kolikoro, where his rival changed him, his horse, and his favourite griot into stone.

But although he is petrified the Soninké chief retains his magic power, and the village is still under his protection. At the foot of the hill two sacred rocks receive the offerings of the negroes, consisting of ears of millet, chickens, and calabashes filled with _degue_ (millet flour boiled and strained).

Somangoro is supposed, or rather was supposed, not to tolerate neighbours, so that when in 1885 a post-office was for the first time set up on the plateau of the hill, the chief of the village thought it his duty to warn the officer in charge that it would certainly fall down. And so it did, for it had been put up too hurriedly, and collapsed in a violent storm. In 1889 I, in my turn, tried to build nine earthen huts on the same spot to accommodate the staff of the Niger flotilla. Pressed for time, I began by putting up a wooden framework, and the roof was being put on simultaneously with the adding of the earthen walls. Of course I had supported the corners of my framework by pieces of wood, but my mason, finding himself in want of them, did not hesitate to remove them, and therefore, just what might have been expected happened—my house went down like a castle of cards, dragging the roof and the men at work on it with it. Fortunately no one was hurt. Naturally the influence of Somangoro was supposed to have been at the bottom of the catastrophe, and I could not get any natives from the village to work for me on that spot again. I was very much vexed, but fortunately I suddenly remembered how a certain General of the first Republic managed to get the blood of Saint Januarius to liquefy when it rebelled against performing the miracle expected of it. I presented Somangoro with a white sheep, and at the same time told the sorcerer who superintends the rites of the hero’s worship that he had a choice of a good present or a flogging, according to the answer his master should make to them through him. Under the circumstances, I added, Somangoro would surely do the best he could for the welfare of his faithful servant. The event was as I foresaw. The oracle, when consulted, declared that full permission was granted me to reside where I liked. Since then I have been supposed throughout Bambara to be on excellent terms with Somangoro.

Mount Kolikoro is a harbour of refuge for escaped slaves who have fled from the injustice and brutality of their masters, and declare themselves to be the captives of Somangoro. No one dares to touch them as long as they keep close to the rock, so they have built huts there and till the ground for food.

Another noteworthy fact with regard to this mountain is, that an oath taken by it whilst eating _degué_ is inviolable. He who should perjure himself by a lie after that would be sure to lose his life. When I was in command there I often turned this belief to account, and got at the truth in matters far too complicated to be solved by the ordinary light of human reason.

I must also add that Somangoro is also the enemy of thieves. When anything has been stolen in the village of Kolikoro, a crier is heard going through the streets at night, calling upon the dead hero to cause the death of the culprit if he does not return the fruit of his larceny. Generally the person robbed recovers his property. I do not know why, but this easy mode of invoking the power attributed amongst Catholics in Europe to Saint Anthony of Padua is called _Welle da_, which means literally to appeal to the door.

The first days of our stay at Kolikoro were occupied in unpacking and going over our stores. We landed our two wooden barges from the old flotilla, brought down by Taburet, to have the necessary repairs done. Alas! what a disagreeable surprise we had! It was not mere repairs they needed, but a complete overhauling. During the previous winter the wood of the outside had rotted, partly from being badly kept, and more than half the boarding had to be replaced with new. The only thing to do was to set to work vigorously to remedy the evil. Fortunately our friend Osterman, who had already rendered us so many services, was now at Kolikoro superintending the building of canoes for the re-victualling of the river stations, and he was ready to help us again in every way. We succeeded in putting our three little barks in order, but we never made them as watertight as they were originally, and especially with the _Aube_ the leakage was a constant source of anxiety to us all through our trip.

Our engineer, Sauzereau, meanwhile was busy putting the _Davoust_ together, an operation the difficulty of which was greatly increased by the fact that several of the sections had got bent and twisted, either on the road or during the time when she was left at Badumbé. In her case also we had to resort to various ingenious contrivances, supplementing the original metal with pieces of wood or iron rods. On November 19 we launched her, but the water rushed in in floods through the badly fitting joints, and our unfortunate vessel seemed more like a huge strainer than anything else. Well, we must tighten the bolts somehow! So in somewhat primitive costumes we armed ourselves with turn-screws, and with our feet in the water did our best. Taburet especially distinguished himself at this work, and was so full of zeal, that in his too eager efforts he even broke off some of the heads of the bolts. We were obliged to check our good doctor’s ardour a little. At last, what with blows from our turn-screws, and the use of plenty of putty and a little tow, we succeeded in draining the boat.

We made two straw couches on the _Aube_, and—unheard-of luxury!—we covered over the plank ceilings of the _Davoust_ with pretty yellow mats made in the country, the colours of which harmonized well with the light grey of the wood.

Whilst we were thus at work we were able to make our observations at our leisure on the life of the village. We happened to have arrived just at the time of an annual fête, which is the delight of all the natives of Bambara, except perhaps those on whose account it is held. I allude to the ceremony of Buluku, or circumcision, which is performed on male negroes at the age of twelve, whilst young girls of a similar age are subjected to an operation of a corresponding but more barbarous kind. Male and female blacksmiths, who, amongst all the Sudanese tribes, are a class apart, are the operators. The victims are taken outside the village to a wood considered sacred, and there they are compelled to dance and shout till they are exhausted with fatigue, and reduced with the further aid of copious draughts of _libo_, or millet beer, to a state of semi-insensibility. The operation of circumcision is then performed with a sharp little knife, on a mortar for grinding millet turned upside down. The poor children must not utter a cry or even moan, although, judging from the expression of their faces, they suffer a good deal. The young girls undergo a similar treatment, but whereas their brothers are all right again two or three days afterwards, they are ill for more than a month. During the period of convalescence the children are not allowed to return to the huts of their parents. Under the care of the blacksmiths they are to be seen going round and round the villages in small parties singing, and during this march they are allowed to take anything they fancy without paying for it. All this time the girls are covered by big white veils, whilst the boys wear a cap of a peculiar shape; both sexes carry a musical instrument made of pieces of calabash, threaded on a thin branch of some tree, the clinking of which is heard a long way off.

At Kolikoro, the year after this ceremony, the girls who have been operated on give a fête called the _Wansofili_. In the centre of the village is a huge baobab tree many centuries old, which is held sacred by the natives, and is supposed to have the power of making women prolific. The girls alluded to above gather about this tree in groups and rub their stomachs against the trunk with a hope of thus ensuring offspring. The ceremony winds up with a debauch, during which scenes occur which have perhaps more to do with the perpetuation of the race of the Bambaras than even the venerated baobab. One evening when I had gone to witness a _Wansofili_, I was obliged to imitate the example of Jacob’s son and to flee from the daughters of the village, lest my dignity as Commander of the expedition should be compromised. It was too hot for me to be wearing a mantle, otherwise I should certainly have left it behind me.

On the occasion of the Buluku a certain Kieka-Sanké came to give us a _tam-tam_ of his own. Kieka-Sanké, I must explain, is a member of the Koridjuga tribe, a caste with its own special customs and its own dancers and singers, I might almost say composers.

Sanké was an old acquaintance of mine, and his mummeries had often amused me. Moreover, the information he had given me had often been most useful, for the right bank of the river was then still in the power of the Toucouleurs, and I had neighbours at Guni, and in Sanké’s own village, on whom it was necessary to keep a vigilant watch.

Now Sanké’s profession enabled him to go everywhere and to see everything without being suspected, so that he was often able to warn me in good time of what the Toucouleurs were thinking of doing. But those anxious days are over now, and he came to Kolikoro on this occasion merely to exercise his art. His greatest successes have been achieved when he has been disguised as a woman, for he is wonderfully clever at imitating feminine ways. As he dances he strikes a calabash full of little flints, and composes songs on the spot which are full of caustic humour. One of his privileges, and he values it greatly, is that he can say anything to or of anybody without giving offence.

During my first stay at Kolikoro, Sanké was particularly fond of taking off the Mussulman Toucouleurs, and I remember one day how, _à propos_ of their many prostrations and genuflexions, he said, “What pleasure can these fellows give to Allah by showing Him their backs three times a day!” My lady readers must pardon me; the Bambara language is in certain expressions no more refined than the Latin.

This time Sanké, after having as usual given us all the news, imitated the taking of a village. Wearing huge plumes on his head, and riding astride on a stick with a horse’s head, which represented his war steed, and a wooden gun in his hand, he was in his own person the besieger and the besieged. It was really interesting to see him imitate, with a skill many comedians might envy, the fierce gestures of a mounted warrior charging, the crafty bearing of the foot soldier hidden behind some cover waiting to rush out on the unsuspecting enemy, the fall of the wounded, the convulsions of the dying. The performance ended with a song in praise of the French in general and ourselves in particular. In these impromptu verses Sanké advised women to lay aside their spinning-wheels, for the white men would give them money and fine clothes for much less tiring work. I refrain from quoting more.

On December 12 we embarked our last load, and at half-past two we started.

On the 17th we anchored opposite Sego, where we were to receive from the Government stores the greater amount of the reserve provisions for three months which we had to take with us in some hundred and fifty cases. Bluzet raised his arms to Heaven in despair when he saw the huge piles. “We shall never get them into our hold!” he cried, “unless the axiom that the lesser cannot contain the greater is not true after all.” He did not, however, realize what skilful stowage could do. Baudry disappeared at the bottom of the hold, and nothing more was seen of him that day. And what he did then as second in command he had to do again and again for a whole month, unpacking and repacking, hunting about amongst the confusion of packages and cases for the one containing what was wanted. I confess I often pitied him from the bottom of my heart, the more that the temperature beneath the metal roof of our hold was not one easily borne by a European.

At half-past two in the afternoon Captain Destenaves, at one time resident at Bandiagara, arrived from Massina, where he had been in command for more than a year.

Destenaves had led our expedition to Mossi and Dori. From the latter town, which is situated on the borders of the Tuareg districts, he had brought much interesting information, and he was also accompanied by an old man named Abdul Dori, who declared himself ready to join our expedition.

Abdul was what is known in these parts as a _diavandu Fulah_, that is to say, a Fulah belonging to a family which resembles in certain respects the _griots_ of whom I have had more than once occasion to speak. A _diavandu_ attaches himself to the person of some chief, whom he serves as a confidential agent, courier, etc. He toadies his master to the top of his bent, and so makes a good thing out of him, by hook or by crook. Even if he is not exactly a noble character, it is impossible to deny that the _diavandu_ is often very full of intelligence and address. If Abdul had really resolved to join us he might have rendered us very great services, but, as will be seen, the sly fellow had his own particular schemes to further, and was perhaps even a spy in the pay of the Toucouleurs sent to watch and circumvent us.

Destenaves was, moreover, in a great state of indignation, for though his expedition had succeeded at Dori, it had come to grief at Mossi. He had even had to fire a few shots. He laid all the blame, not without reason, on the former Governor of the French Sudan. In fact, M. Grodet, instead of letting Destenaves go first to Bobo Diulasso, where he would have been sure of a good reception, made him adopt an unfortunate course. Unable, in face of his instructions from home, to stop the expedition altogether, as in our case, he ordered its leader to go towards the districts occupied by the Mossi, who were wholly unprepared to receive it.

We left Sego on the morning of the 18th, and arrived the same day at Sansanding, where my good friend Mademba was waiting for us.

Every traveller who has been to Mademba’s, and has since written an account of his journey, has made a point, not without justice, of bearing grateful testimony to the merits of this noble fellow.

Mademba Seye is a native who was at one time in the employ of the French post and telegraph office. He especially distinguished himself during the construction of the line which, keeping alongside of the Senegal, crosses the Toucouleur districts of the Senegalese Foota. Just now the Toucouleurs were very much irritated against us, and full of arrogance because no punishment had been inflicted on them for their daily misdeeds. They stopped barges coming up from St. Louis, they molested the traders and pillaged their merchandise, and the greatest skill, courage, and _savoir faire_ were needed on the part of Mademba to conquer the difficulties besetting his path.

Later he did wonders in the Sudan, and his defence of the village of Guinina was a glorious feat of arms. He was victorious over the troops of Fabu, the brother of Samory, though he had no one with him but the few employés helping him to put down the line. Colonel Gallieni sent for him to be a kind of chief interpreter, and he held that position until, the Toucouleurs having been driven from Sego and Nioro, the country just conquered by the French was properly organized.

A small kingdom, with Sansanding as capital, was placed under Mademba; he had in his service a certain number of _sofas_, or captive Amadu warriors, who had surrendered to the French and to the natives. Our postmaster-general soon became the _Fama Mademba_, the word _fama_ signifying a chief or king among the natives of Bambara.

Mademba gathered a court about him, showing a very clear sense of the right policy to pursue. When with us his manners and tastes were quite civilized, but he knew that to get an influence over his new subjects he must adopt the customs of their chiefs. He began by building himself a palace, which consists of a vast rectangular enceinte, with a door embellished with rough ornaments in clay. In the first vestibule, or _bolo_, are the guards, or _dalasiguis_, armed with muskets. This porch gives access to a series of courts and other _bolos_, where of an evening bellow the cattle and bleat the sheep belonging to the chief. A last door, guarded or rather watched over by some fifteen children, gives access to the favourite apartment of the _Fama_. Why should children be employed? Because they are the only people who can be depended on to tell the truth, and if they notice anything unusual they are very sure, sooner or later, to tell what they have seen. For the same reason, perhaps, and also on æsthetic grounds, the _Fama_ is waited on by women only, most of whom are the daughters of blacksmiths or griots, specially attached to the chief, their name, _Korosiguis_, meaning, “those who sit beside.” Moreover, Mademba showed great acumen in his choice of servants, and I never saw so many pretty girls anywhere else in the Sudan.

Behind the royal apartments, and completely surrounding the vast enclosure, are the huts of Mademba’s wives; but there begins the private life of the chief, and I can’t introduce you to that, for the simple reason that I have never seen anything of it myself.

Surrounded by his male and female griots, wearing a grand green _burnous_, on which gleamed the Cross of the Legion of Honour, the reward of his courage in the service of France, Mademba came to the banks of the river to welcome us. Shouts and acclamations of delight and sympathy with us greeted us as we landed, and if we had not known what all the fuss meant, we might have mistaken it for a declaration of war.

We went home with the _Fama_, and there, taking off his _burnous_, the black chief disappeared, to be replaced by our old friend Mademba, cultivated, refined, a charming talker, quite up-to-date in all that was going on in Europe, the man whom all Frenchmen who have been in the Sudan know and appreciate. He did the honours of an excellent, almost European meal, and we drank a glass of champagne together, in spite of his being a good Mussulman, for he has none of the stupid fanaticism of his fellow believers.

Just before we started I had made the following little speech to my coolies: “My friends, I know I am asking what will cost you a good deal of self-denial, but you must oblige me by not being too attentive to the women you meet until we have reached Timbuktu. You know that that sort of thing leads to disputes, sometimes even to regular quarrels, with the natives, and we shall have quite enough hostility to contend with without creating any ill-feeling ourselves. I warn you, moreover, that I shall give you no more pay after we leave Sansanding till we reach our goal. I will, however, give you two months’ pay in advance at Sansanding, and you will have three days to spend it in. For a year therefore, and perhaps more, after you leave Sansanding, remember, you have done with women.”

Truth to tell, I had learnt from experience that the ardent temperaments of negroes forming the escorts of expeditions really often jeopardized success, if their amours did not actually bring about failure. Of course I can’t be sure that my orders, which I repeated later, were always strictly obeyed, but at all events I did a good deal to lessen the evil.

I gave my jolly fellows three days to enjoy themselves in, and they took me at my word. Until half-past one on the 22nd I saw next to nothing of them on board, and when the time for starting arrived I had to send to hunt up our little Abdulaye Dem, who had quite forgotten how the time went in the society of a coal black Circe.

Meanwhile, we Europeans amused ourselves far more usefully in arranging for our further journey, and in trying the effect on the natives of our most attractive possessions, viz. the little organ, the bicycle, and the phonograph.

The organ had already done wonders, and as for our _Suzanne_, as we called our bicycle, she caused a perfect delirium of joy.

Mademba had an ancient-looking negress of Amadu, named Yakaré, in his suite. She was really only about forty years old, but she was considered one of the cleverest women in all Bambara.

There was a certain ring about her songs of war and love which would be appreciated even in Europe, and the following specimen, in which she glorifies Donga or the vulture, Monson, the greatest _fama_ of Bambara, will serve to give an idea of the rhythm.

Braves! Heroes, who of you dares rail at Donga?

I tell you evil will come upon you if you mock at him.

Raillery of him was fatal to Diakuruna Tutun.

Samaniana Baci thought to play with Donga,

He fancied he could make merry with him;

But that did not please the vulture,

And he took Bamana Dankun

And cut off his head, yes, took his head from his shoulders.

Dankun had only said that the Bambaras

Could not pause in sacrifices already begun.[4]

I sing of Donga Jaribata,[5]

The vulture of four wings,

A mighty bird, whose talons

Can tear up the soil of the earth;

A bird who if he will

Can dig a well with his claws.

You can just imagine the sensation when, after the negress had finished her chant, the phonograph repeated it without anybody’s help.

But all good things must come to an end, and to the great regret of my coolies, I gave the signal for departure on the 22nd.

Below Sansanding the Niger increases sensibly in depth. This fact explains alike the former and the future importance of the village as a commercial centre. The trade of the country is, in fact, conveyed up and down by water in big canoes some 60 feet long, capable of carrying twenty tons, and made of planks tied together. Holes are pierced in these planks, through which ropes are passed made of the fibres, which are very strong, of the leaves of a kind of hibiscus. When Sansanding, Jenné, and Timbuktu were prosperous places, when the savage hordes of Toucouleurs had not yet spread death and desolation everywhere in the name of Islam, these heavy craft, sometimes drawing more than six feet, used to halt at Sansanding. For the traffic further up stream smaller boats were used, which plied to and fro nearly all the year round. A central mart was absolutely indispensable to the Sudan merchants, and Sansanding was fitted by nature to become that mart. I believe that in its most prosperous times it numbered from thirty to forty thousand inhabitants, though now these are reduced to some three or four thousand, in spite of the fresh impulse given by the more prosperous times of to-day, and the intelligence of the governor Mademba.

When the railway has been pushed from Kayes to Kolikoro, and when steamboats ply on the Niger, similar causes will of course produce similar results. Steamboats will not, however, be able to go beyond Sansanding all the year round, for no amount of improvement in their build can reduce their draught below one and a half or two feet. Above this point, however, the river is navigable for a longer or shorter time every year in such barges as are now in use. At the most, the traffic is only interrupted for about four months in the year. Sansanding will again become a central emporium and transhipping station; all its old importance will be restored to it.

I may add, that it has fortunately many other advantages, including good anchorage and landing places, where boats can be moored in shelter during the violent storms of Central Africa; the soil too is very dry, so that the place is healthier than many others in the Sudan, and the people are gentle, intelligent, and industrious.

Beyond Sansanding the course of the Niger changes considerably. Thus far the river flows between pretty straight uniform banks, but now the hills are lower, and behind them the country is perfectly flat, without so much as an undulation, so that they are completely flooded, often for an immense distance, when the water is high. Here and there villages rise from slight eminences, the clumps of hibiscus surrounding them rendering them visible from afar. Now too appears the sweet grass which the natives call _burgu_, a special characteristic of the riverside vegetation as far as Say. It is a kind of aquatic couch-grass nearly level with the soil when on the subsiding of the floods the ground becomes dry again. Directly the soil is once more inundated, however, the burgu sends out shoots with extraordinary rapidity, and they grow so fast that they soon reach the top of the water. The natives make a sweet beverage of the leaves of this grass, of too sickly a taste to be fancied by Europeans, but negroes are very fond of it. For our hydrographical surveys the burgu was a most invaluable help, growing as it does, as I have already remarked, wherever the solid ground reappears after the floods. If, therefore, we should be overtaken by a tornado on the open river, we can always take refuge from the waves by anchoring in the middle of the submerged tracts.

On January 1 we reached Gurao on Lake Debo, where I had recently resided for two years in charge of the Niger flotilla, consisting of the two gunboats _Niger_ and _Mage_, and a few barges made of the wood of the country. Two of these barges, it will be remembered, were now part of our exploring expedition.

We paid a visit between whiles to the tomb of Sidi Hamet Beckay, in the village of Saredina. I shall often have occasion later to refer to this worthy, so I will content myself with adding but a few words about him here. It was thanks to him that Barth was able to stop six months at Timbuktu, pursue his voyage in safety, and go down the river by Say to Sokoto, whence he had started eighteen months before. Thanks to him too, Barth was able to send details to Europe of the hitherto mysterious city of Timbuktu, which had previously been visited by no white men except René Caillé.

When El Hadj Omar and his fanatical hordes came to devastate Massina, Hamet Beckay did his utmost to stop the course of the Toucouleur conqueror, by urging on him his own interpretation of the Mussulman religion, which he also professed: an interpretation too noble and elevated to be adopted by any but a few votaries. It was all in vain; his remonstrances were unheeded by El Hadj. Beckay had to be content with organizing a stout resistance; he summoned to arms his faithful friends the Tuaregs and the Fulahs, his former adversaries. But, alas! he died at Saredina before he could accomplish anything. The story goes, that when in perfect health he was seized with a gloomy presentiment of his approaching end. He called his intimate friends together, telling them that he might perhaps soon be summoned to make a distant journey, and giving to them his turban and his sword, the former for his son Abiddin, the latter for his son-in-law, Beckay Uld Ama Lamine, which signified that he bequeathed his spiritual power to Abiddin and his temporal authority to Ama Lamine. Then he begged to be left alone to pray during the hour of the siesta. When his followers returned they found the great marabout, his chaplet, clasped in his hands, and his eyes closed in an attitude of ecstasy. After watching him for a short time they became alarmed at his immobility, they touched him to try and awake him. But his lifeless body fell to the ground, the spirit of Hamet Beckay had left its earthly tabernacle. Beckay Uld Ama Lamine continued the struggle begun by his father-in-law, and to him and his faithful adherents is due the honour of having besieged and killed El Hadj Omar at Hamdallahi. The blood-stained course of the Toucouleurs was checked for the moment, and the Western Sudan was saved from falling into the hands of the ferocious warriors of El Hadj.

Saredina is about two and a half miles from the river, and to reach it we had to cross a partially inundated plain over-grown with grass, in which nested quantities of aquatic birds. Arrived at the village we asked to be directed to the tomb, and found it to consist of little more than a small earthen case upheld by wooden poles, for the mass of dried bricks which had originally formed the monument to Hamet Beckay had all but disappeared. The natives of the neighbourhood had shown little respect for the great chief’s resting-place, and had used the materials of his tomb to weight their nets and make their agricultural implements. In my report to the governor of the French Sudan I put in a plea for a grave more worthy of Hamet Beckay. I hope my suggestion will be attended to, for it would be not only fitting, but good policy to preserve the memory of a man whose character was the more estimable in that such tolerance as his is rare indeed amongst his fellow believers. Such an act of pious respect for a Mussulman on our part would greatly increase our moral influence amongst the Mahommedans of the neighbourhood, especially amongst those of the interesting Kunta tribe to which Hamet Beckay belonged.

At Gurao we had to collect the ammunition for our guns and cannons, and also to pick up some of our actual weapons, notably a certain machine gun which had belonged to the Niger flotilla. The work involved in all this delayed us till the 3rd, but on the afternoon of that day we resumed our journey.

On the 7th we reached Saraféré, an important market-place near the junction of the Niger and the Kolikolo, which latter is an arm of the river, branching off from it a little above Lake Debo. Here old Abdul Dori, the guide we had engaged at Sego, brought us a young man named Habilulaye, who was a Kunta, and I seize the opportunity of his visit to say something about the tribe to which he belonged, as I shall often have to refer to it.

The Kuntas are of the Arab race, and are descended from the famous conqueror of North Africa, Sidi Okha, who was a native of Yemen. After winning over to the religion of Mahomet a considerable portion of North Africa, his dominion extending nearly to Tangiers, the victor was assassinated near Biskra, where his tomb is still to be seen.

His descendants spread in many directions, and the Kuntas took root at Tuat, where as venerated marabouts they exercised, indeed they still exercise, a very great influence.

During the first half of the present century, Timbuktu occupied a very difficult and most precarious position. About 1800 a Fulah marabout, named Othman dan Fodio, carved out for himself a regular empire between Lake Tchad and the Niger, and his example led to the revolt, and the generally successful revolt, of nearly all the Fulahs distributed throughout the river basin. At Massina, Amadu Lobbo Cissé, a chief—of Soninké birth, it is true, but who had long resided amongst the Fulahs—raised the standard of revolt in the name of Islam, and his attempt, after various vicissitudes, succeeded. He and his son founded later an empire, the influence of which, with Hamda-Allahi as its capital, soon extended on both banks of the Niger as far as Timbuktu. Arrived there, however, the Fulahs found themselves face to face with the Tuareg tribes, who were very jealous of the maintenance of their independence. War of course soon broke out, and it lasted for half-a-century without any subjugation of the Tuaregs. It was not until later that the invasion of the Toucouleurs, led by El Hadj Omar, united the combatants against their common foe.

During this time of struggle and trouble Timbuktu, standing as it did between the two contending parties, passed first to one and then to the other, and pillaged by both sides, she rapidly declined in prosperity, and was in danger of complete ruin.

Under these trying circumstances, the merchants of the city, eager to obtain some sort of security for their lives, their goods, and their trade, sent to Tuat an earnest petition that some venerated Kunta marabout should come and live near Timbuktu, hoping that the respect felt for his piety might put a stop to the depredations of which their town was the victim.

Sidi Moktar responded to this appeal. He came, and took up his abode with his family and a few of his more distant relations near Timbuktu. Of these relations the most celebrated were his brothers Sidi Aluatta and Sidi Hamet Beckay with his nephew Amadi.

Barth has told us much about them all, but we have now specially to deal with Hamet Beckay, the doctor’s chief protector.

Imbued through reading Barth’s travels with a belief that the very fate of my expedition might depend on finding, as he did, some man universally loved and respected to take me and my followers under his protection, I earnestly hoped to find such a man amongst the Tuaregs, with whom I had become well acquainted during my two years’ residence in the Sudan.

As will be borne out by my further narrative, these Tuaregs seemed to me far less black than they were painted in Europe. At the same time, I recognized that certain peculiarities of their character might involve me in great difficulties. If they were not exactly instinctively ferocious, I knew that they were quick to take offence, defiant, full of dread of innovation, and ready to look on every stranger as a spy. To them a traveller is but the harbinger of some warlike expedition, which will wrest from them their greatest treasure, their independence.

But I had to get some one to go bail for me, some one to take me under his patronage and protection, and I had resolved, if it could possibly be done, to find that some one amongst the Kuntas. Surely, I thought, the traditions of tolerance of which Hamet Beckay had given such striking proof, must have been handed down to some of his descendants.

I did not, however, disguise from myself that in the very nature of things, since other marabouts had, since Beckay’s death, come to preach a holy war, and to inculcate hatred of the infidel, that the Kuntas would necessarily be forced—if they did not wish to lose their prestige—to howl with the rest of the wolves. But I reflected there is still time to appeal to the example of their grandfather, and experience proved that I was right.

I put out all my eloquence and powers of persuasion to win over young Habibulaye, and I succeeded. From him I learned that the Kuntas were now divided into several groups. He and his brother Hamadi, the sons of Sidi Aluatti, the brother of Hamet Beckay, had, however, remained at Timbuktu when the French occupied that town, and had all espoused our cause.

Aluatti, the son of Amadi, was in authority on the southern side of the river, and he looked on our expedition with a favourable eye. Further on, Baye and Baba Hamet, the sons of Hamet Beckay, would, I expected, be useful auxiliaries to us if only for the sake of their father’s memory.

Habibulaye did not, it is true, conceal from me the fact that other Kuntas were bitterly hostile to us, notably a certain Abiddin, who generally resided at Tuat, and who meant to rouse the Hoggars against us. He had, in fact, twice gone quite close to Timbuktu to try and make the people rise against the French.

More confirmed than ever by all that I heard in my resolve, and having now got all the information I could out of Habibulaye, who was but a child, I made up my mind, as soon as I got to Timbuktu to take Hamadi into my confidence, and get him to give me recommendations to his relations.

A strong east wind, which lashed the river into waves and was dead against us, delayed us so much that we did not reach Kabara until the evening of January 11.

As is well known, Timbuktu is not actually on the river, but at low water is some eight or nine miles off. Djitafe is then the nearest point of approach for canoes, but when the river rises they go up a lateral arm, and come first to Koriomé and then to Day. At certain times a stream, the bed of which is said to have been hollowed out, or at least deepened by the hand of man, enables very small craft to get up to Kabara, whilst more rarely, that is to say, when the inundations are at their height, the various excavations behind the Kabara dune are successively filled up, and boats can reach the capital itself. As a general rule, however, merchandise is taken into Timbuktu on the backs of camels and asses, the route varying according to the state of the river.

The ancient capital of Nigritia, or the Sudan, as it was still called not long ago in geographical text-books, has lost all its mystery since it passed into the hands of the French, and opinions are divided as to its present and future position. My friend Felix Dubois has described it, and it would be alike a waste of time and presumption on my part to attempt to supplement what he has said so well. I shall content myself with noting the reason of the former great commercial importance of Timbuktu; relatively considered of course. “Timbuktu,” says an Arab author, “is the point of meeting of the camel and the canoe.” That fact alone would not, however, be enough to account for its prosperity; many other places on the river fulfil this condition, as well if not better than Timbuktu, for, as we can ourselves testify, the canoe and the camel only meet there a few days in the year, and not always even as often as that.

In my opinion we have to seek the explanation elsewhere, and I think I have found it. Here it is: camels cannot with impunity approach rivers or other water-courses, for this reason. The banks are subject to constant inundations, and, especially in the Niger basin, quantities of succulent grass, containing a great deal of water, everywhere spring up, which, though the camel eats them gluttonously, are fatal to the “ship of the desert,” used as it is to dry food.

Now by a strange freak of nature, the part of the desert, I will not say exactly the driest part, but certainly the portion containing neither streams nor permanent pools, that vast expanse improperly called the Sahara, stretches up to the very gates of Timbuktu, so that caravans can reach the city without any risk to the animals. In a word, may we not say that Timbuktu is not a port of the Niger in the Sahara, but a port of the Sahara near the Niger?

As long as the trade of Timbuktu is carried on chiefly by caravans coming from the north, it will, in my opinion, retain its importance, but as soon as the Sudan railway is completed, merchandise will come by way of it and the river, and the commerce of Timbuktu will be reduced to a trifling trade in salt, which is dug out in considerable quantities from the mines of Towdeyni, about twenty days’ march on the north.

When we arrived, we could only bring our boats up to Kabera. The port was blocked with big canoes made of planks tied together in the manner already described, and a brisk trade in salt and grain was going on on the quays.

The next day I went to Timbuktu, and was received with open arms by the commandant, M. Rejou, who was in charge of the whole district.

I had one thing very much at heart, and I set to work to see about it at once. It was to persuade Father Hacquart, superior of _Pères blancs_ mission at Timbuktu, to accompany us on our expedition.

When I said _persuade_, I did not perhaps use quite the right word, for I did not for one moment doubt the readiness of the good father to go with us. The companion of Attanoux in his journey amongst the Tuaregs of the north, formerly _Commandant des Frères armés_ of Mgr. Lavigerie, Father Hacquart could not fail to be won over by the idea of accomplishing a similar journey. But I knew him to be too devoted to his duty to hesitate an instant between a project, however attractive to his tastes and desires, and the interests of the mission, which had been under his direction at Timbuktu for more than a year, and to which his rare qualities had already given such life and success.

On the other hand, even from the point of view of the work to which Father Hacquart and his companions had devoted themselves, going down the Niger, opening relations with the natives on its banks, and obtaining all the information necessary for the work of their future evangelization, was really perhaps to bring about the good results hoped for years before they could otherwise have been achieved. The aim of Father Hacquart was really the same as ours, to see, to study on the spot, and to make friends, leaving to his superiors the task of deciding how his future campaign should be carried out.

As for me, nothing could be better for the success of my undertaking than the co-operation of Father Hacquart. Already familiar with the manners and customs of the Tuaregs, he would be a most valuable adviser; a distinguished Arabic scholar, he could in many cases converse without an interpreter with the natives, a matter of the greatest importance. He could, moreover, check the translations and reports of my Arab interpreter, Tierno Abdulaye Dem. Then his intelligence, the loftiness of his aims and views, the uprightness and energy of his character, were a sure guarantee that in him I should find a most valuable controller of my own acts and schemes, for of course I should ever be ready to listen to what he might suggest.

Father Hacquart turned out indeed to be all that I have just described. I often changed all my plans in accordance with his advice, and I never had cause to regret having done so. He must pardon me for giving expression here to all my gratitude, and for proclaiming it on every occasion as loud as I can, for it was in a very great measure to him I owed the remarkable fact, that my Niger expedition was accomplished in the midst of tribes so diverse and sometimes badly disposed towards the French—without the firing of a single shot.

As I hoped, Father Hacquart yielded to my persuasions, and we now numbered five Europeans.

On the other hand, our native escort was reduced. One of our coolies, Matar Samba, had been out of sorts ever since we left Sansanding. During the last few days he had become worse, and both Dr. Taburet and a medical man at Timbuktu were of opinion that he was suffering from tubercular disease, and would only hamper, not help me, in the further journey. I decided therefore to leave him at Timbuktu, and when I came back from Dakar on our return I had the pleasure of finding him much better, if not completely cured.

Aided by Father Hacquart, I at once opened relations with Hamadi, the Kunta of whom I have already spoken, and he promised to do all he could to persuade his relation Aluatta to go with us. It was significant that when I begged Hamadi to join us himself, he replied, “No; I might merely arouse opposition, and you might suffer through my being with you. I would rather write to Aluatta; he will be more likely to say yes then, for, like a dutiful relation, I shall only urge him to come and share the windfall of all your beautiful presents.”

The next thing I did was to try and meet at Timbuktu with some natives who were on friendly relations with the Awellimiden, the important Tuareg tribe to which I shall so often have to refer later, but whether they spoke the truth or were deceiving me, one and all declared that they knew absolutely nothing about them.

To make up for this, however, a native of Tuat, a certain Bechir Uld Mbirikat, who had long lived at Timbuktu, and whom I had met before, gave me some letters for his cousin Mohammed, who was living amongst the Igwadaren Tuaregs, and for Sheriff Salla Uld Kara, chief of the village of Tosaye, who had once been the pupil of Hamet Beckay, and the friend of Barth.

Moreover, Bechir gave me a valuable bit of advice, which I immediately followed, without, however, fully realizing its importance at the time. This counsel, perhaps, contributed more than anything we did to the success of our expedition. “Tell them,” said Bechir, “that you are the son of Abdul Kerim.” Now Abdul Kerim was the Arab name assumed by Dr. Barth during his journey. This custom of taking an Arab name seemed almost comic, and reminded me of a little play I once saw acted at the Châtelet Theatre in Paris. I forget the name of it, but a traveller figured in it, who took his servant with him to the heart of Africa. The latter, who was passionately fond of travelling, and took an eager interest in all the doings and adventures of explorers, made but one request, and that was to be allowed to change his name of Joseph to that of Mohammed Ben Abdullah. “It was more euphonious,” he said, and the audience roared with laughter.

Well, Joseph was quite right, and if Barth had not done as he did, the negroes and Tuaregs would never have remembered his European name, it would never have become engraved on their memories, it would never have been transmitted to their descendants, and I should not have been able to solve all difficulties, however great, and emerge safely from every situation, however embarrassing, by the simple words “I am the son, or rather the nephew of Abdul Kerim.”

It is impossible to admire too much the lofty, upright character of Barth, which so impressed all with whom he came in contact on his journey, that nearly half a century after his death the mere fact of his having traversed a district—poor as he was, and exposed to all manner of dangers, the friendship of Beckay his only safeguard—should be enough to open the way for a pretended relation of his.

How few travellers could boast of having done as much, even in modern times. Too many explorers have indeed, after forcing their way through a country against the will of the natives, left behind them a legacy of increased difficulty and danger to their successors.

I was very anxious to secure the services of a political agent with a thorough knowledge of the country, and the language of the Tuaregs. I wished to send him, if I could find him, in advance of our party to take letters to the chiefs, or to plead our cause with them.

Acting on the advice of Hamadi, I chose a certain Sidi Hamet, distantly connected with the Kuntas, and then employed in the Custom House at Timbuktu, under one Said, the interpreter of the Post-Office.

I must do this justice to Said, he yielded with anything but a good grace to the employment of his subordinate on our service, and did more to dissuade him than to further our wishes. We had to invoke the aid of Commandant Rejou, and later, at Tosaye, Sidi Hamet piteously entreated me to let him go back, and I expect Said’s objection to his joining us had something to do with his faltering. However, I forgive him with all my heart. Sidi Hamet was the interpreter’s right hand, his chief source of information on every subject, and he found it hard work to fulfil his own duties, even those of an interpreter, without him.

On the 16th I went back to spend a day at Kabara, where I had invited all the notables of Timbuktu to come and listen to the wonders of the phonograph. It was an exhibition which long dwelt in the memory of those present. Amongst the most attentive listeners were the two sons of the chief of the Eastern Kuntas, who lives at Mabrok. I felt sure that the rumour of the extraordinary things I had done would precede me.

Commandant Rejou had already warned Sakhaui, or Sarrawi, chief of the Igwadaren Aussa, the first Tuareg tribe we should meet on our way down the river, of our approach. In the evening two envoys from this chief arrived with a missive, which it was almost impossible to decipher, but from which, in spite of its ludicrous phraseology, we managed to make out two things, one being that Sakhaui had no desire to see us, the other that he was very much afraid of us.

We did our best to reassure and impress the messengers, and finally succeeded in convincing them that we had no evil intentions with regard to the Igwadaren, and armed with a fresh document from us they set off to return to their chief.

Meanwhile Sidi Hamet, who had been well coached in what he was to say and do, had started on his way to Aluatta, to ask him to meet us at Kagha, a little village on the right bank about thirty-one miles from Timbuktu. For the first time I now announced my pretended relationship with Abdul Kerim, taking myself the Arab name of Abd el Kader, or the servant of the Most High.

This mission with the Kuntas accomplished, Sidi Hamet was to go to the Igwadaren of Sakhaui and wait for us.

Having settled everything to the best of our ability, visited the boats, and repaired any little damage which had been done by the way, we had now only to give ourselves up to the current of the river and to the will of God.

It was not without a certain emotion that, on Wednesday, January 22, we started from Kabara, seen off by all our brother officers of the garrison of Timbuktu, and escorted to our boats by a great crowd of natives, who, with more or less enthusiasm, invoked the protection of Allah on our behalf.

As long as our boats were in sight of the station we could see handkerchiefs and helmets waving to us in token of adieu, and when the flag of the fort disappeared from view our hearts felt somewhat oppressed, for we were leaving all that in our exile from France represented our native country. Henceforth we five white men, with our twenty-eight black followers, were thrown on our own resources, and had to depend upon ourselves alone. How many of us would return? How many of us were destined to sleep our last sleep beneath the soil of Africa?