II.
Some time after my arrival at Teniet-el-Haad my husband and I, together with our first lieutenant and his wife, were invited to a “diffa” given in our honour by a Caid named Si Benrajah.
THE FRINGE OF THE DESERT.
From a Photograph.
He most politely sent his wagonette to fetch us and was at the door of his house to receive us. He was a tall, good-looking man, and his costume was exquisite. His serronal, or wide trousers, were of pale-grey satin cloth, the large pockets on each side richly embroidered in silk braid of the same shade. Silver lace covered his short bolero, which opened over a shirt which was a mass of green and red silk, gold and silver embroidery. Over that again he wore a lovely white silk “haik,” which, covering his head-dress and kept in place by the “camel cords,” fell round his shoulders, and was then caught up in front from the knee to the gold waistbelt by a cerise coloured silk handkerchief. Over his shoulders hung his burnous, the outer one of fine grey cloth to match the costume, handsomely embroidered at the corners and round the hood, the under one of fine white flannel.
He led us majestically into his “drawing-room”—which, alas! bore unmistakable traces of the Caid’s various journeys to Paris. There was nothing Arab but the lovely carpets and the smell.
A rickety Louis XV. canapé, with chairs to match, stood stiffly against the walls; their coverings of chintz badly wanted washing. An oval table, a walnutwood wardrobe, a washing-stand without the accessories, and two big mirrors, whose frames had once been gilded, completed the furniture. We here partook of refreshments in the unromantic shape of absinthe and lemonade, accompanied by Huntley and Palmer’s biscuits and wafers. I was much disappointed, for I had hoped to see something more Arab and to eat and drink according to the customs of the land. I supposed this was “progress” in Benrajah’s idea; at any rate, he looked most satisfied with himself and his surroundings. He introduced another Caid to us—the Caid of Biskra, I think, who was passing through—a fine, handsome man, whose photograph is here reproduced.
THE CAID OF BISKRA.
[From a Photograph.]
We breakfasted in a large tent, as Benrajah said it was still too warm in the house. Remembering the close, “camelly” sort of smell, I quite agreed with him.
As we entered the tent Mme. G——, the lieutenant’s wife, whispered to me, “Now, mind you don’t refuse a single dish the Caid offers you. If you do you will mortally offend him, especially as it is the first time you break bread under his roof, and the ‘diffa’ is in your honour.”
“All right,” I answered, cheerily.
“Bon! bon! bon!” she cried. “Don’t forget, you must eat everything he offers you.” She skipped off roaring with laughter, which, at the time, I thought very silly of her.
I was again very disappointed by the civilized, European way in which we ate. Instead of squatting cross-legged on the ground, eating with brotherly love out of the same dish with a wooden spoon or our fingers, we sat round a well-laid table, with knives and forks, and dinner-napkins embroidered with the Caid’s initials. Everyone and everything is getting so horribly civilized nowadays, I reflected, sadly.
The repast began with a red-hot liquid in which vermicelli floated. It burnt my unaccustomed mouth and I did not fall in love with it, but as I had never tasted anything like it before I did not even want to refuse when the Caid offered me a second helping. After the soup came some boiled chicken, on which the red liquid had been poured. He helped me largely—twice. The third course was mutton, with prunes; the fourth mutton, with red liquid; the fifth a French ragoût, with an Arab taste; the sixth was chicken without the red liquid; the seventh an Irish stew gone wrong; the eighth—well, perhaps my readers are beginning to feel as tired as I did after having partaken twice of all these dishes. Indeed, I was beginning to feel very serious, and longed ardently for the end of this Gargantuan repast.
After about the twelfth course an Arab in waiting cleared a space on the table before the Caid. My hopes were raised to the heights, but, alas! only to fall to the lowest depths in a very short space of time. Suddenly something knocked my hat on one side, and everyone yelled at me. Dazed, I looked round and rubbed my nose into a sheep’s leg. Starting back, I met the convulsed and, as I imagined, reproachful eye of an enormous sheep lying in a contorted attitude on a big brass platter. Si Benrajah turned to me with a gracious smile. “I am much honoured, madam,” he said, in perfect French, “in being the first to offer you a ‘meshui’ on your arrival in Algeria.”
A TYPICAL ARAB HUT.
[From a Photograph.]
A “meshui,” I learnt, is a royal dish, and is only offered to those the Arabs delight (or are compelled) to honour. It is simply a whole sheep roasted over wood embers, and served uncut on a brass or silver platter. It should not be cut with a knife, but torn off with the fingers and eaten. If you wish to be particularly polite to a friend who is present, you wrench off a piece of flesh and present it with your greasy fingers, and he receives it much flattered, returning the compliment with his greasy fingers. This style of eating was certainly not over-civilized, so I ought to have been better pleased than I was. As a matter of fact I felt very bad, and hoped against hope that the Caid would forget me.
“You are not yet accustomed to our habits,” he said, kindly. “Take a knife and fork and cut off the meat.”
So I cut off a few small bits in a dilatory way, secretly wondering if I could not surreptitiously throw them to some lean, hungry dogs who were peering into the tent door.
“What silly little bits!” cried Benrajah, laughingly. Then, after well licking his brown, henna-stained fingers, he tore off a huge piece and offered it to me! A cold perspiration broke out on my forehead, and I almost longed for death.
“Eat! eat!” he cried, gaily; and, choking down my despair, I ate.
How could I dare to do otherwise after Mme. G——’s warning? Are not the laws of hospitality sacred and to be observed throughout the world? But it was terrible tribute to pay to foreign customs, and I felt a lesser desire for originality.
“It is good?” inquired the Caid.
“Delicious! delicious!” I answered, with a ghastly green smile.
“Ah! Here is a comme il faut Roumia!” he cried, enchanted—and promptly tore me off a beautiful brown piece of meat, weighing, I should think, about three pounds! My cup of anguish was full, and I prayed—yes, actually prayed—to be delivered from that three pounds of meat.
And I was.
Crash! The table-cloth was half dragged off, and, amid a rain of knives and forks, plates and glasses, my little girl rolled on to the ground. I did not lose my presence of mind, but, seizing my pounds of meat, all unseen in the commotion I threw them to the lean dogs, who made very short work of them. Then my motherly feelings came to the fore, and I went to the rescue of my child. It was soon apparent what had happened—the poor mite had been given too much wine by the thoughtless Mme. G——, and was very seedy for some days afterwards.
It would be reasonable to suppose that the “meshui” was the last of the courses, but it disappeared only to give place to the Arab national dish, the “couscous.” At sight of the snowy pile of rolled semolina, surmounted by more mutton, a feeling of revolt took possession of me. I felt I could dare Lucifer himself; and so I refused the couscous, although in a cowardly way, by pretending that fresh air was necessary for my poor little Renée. Perhaps it was, but if it had not been I should have said the same.
I do not think I ever quite forgave Mme. G—— her two practical jokes, for practical jokes they were. When I described my sufferings at having to eat all the Caid gave me, she laughed herself ill and said, “What a ‘blue’ you are!” Which is the French military way of calling you a greenhorn.
“I LOOKED ROUND JUST IN TIME TO SEE AN ARAB LOWERING HIS GUN.”
One of my husband’s great amusements in this out-of-the-way garrison was to construct a hiding-place, in front of which he fixed the carcass of some dead animal, and there, gun in hand, to await the wild beasts such as hyenas, jackals, lynxes, and golden foxes, who scented from afar the goodly supper awaiting them. On these occasions they generally found too much pepper, and often suffered from a mortal indigestion. I sometimes accompanied my husband on such expeditions, and greatly enjoyed crouching silently in some hidden corner, listening to the wailing of an approaching hyena, or the querulous squabbling and howling of the shrieking jackals. And then, when the dry sticks cracked and the dead leaves rustled quite close to me under their stealthy pads, my heart would leap into my mouth for fear they should mistake me for their supper. One night whilst thus listening to some approaching creature my husband, crouching about twenty yards from me, suddenly rose up and called out in Arabic, “Who goes there?” I looked round just in time to see an Arab huntsman lowering his gun, which was pointed full at me. He thought I was a hyena!
During the winter, when the snow lay thick on the ground, I preferred staying at home to keep up a huge fire and fabricate hot drinks in readiness for the frozen huntsman’s return; it seemed to me more a wife’s duty!
Another short incident of my life in Teniet-el-Haad may not be uninteresting. My husband had gone to the manœuvres with his Spahis, and our bordj was only guarded by about thirty “Tirailleurs Algerians.” Then, one day, a terrific storm burst over the land. The air was so thick with fine sand that I could not distinguish the trees before my windows, and the sun hung in the sky like a lurid orange ball, seemingly about to drop. The heat was stifling; one gasped for breath, and, although every door and window was hermetically closed, the rooms were full of sand.
Presently a terrible clamour arose from the village—shouts, cries, screams, gun-shots. Then from the bordj courtyard I heard sharp orders given, the clanking of weapons, and finally the sound of a body of infantry running. The wind howled and shrieked, the sand-storm grew denser and denser, and still the clamour continued in the village. I sat in the drawing-room with my little ones around me, wondering if it were a serious revolt, and what would happen to us if it were. For the district of Teniet-el-Haad was a large one, containing thirty thousand Arabs, and we were far from any important garrison, while our protectors, all Arab, consisted of thirty “tirailleurs,” and ten Spahis belonging to the “Commune Mixte.” Pensively I placed my revolver close to my hand, and waited anxiously.
After a few hours the sirocco cleared somewhat, the noise ceased, and the tirailleurs returned. The whole affair, they told me, had been got up by the mountain Arabs against the Jews, who had been “doing” them. So the Arabs had taken the law into their own hands and administered justice by repaying themselves a hundred-fold and making off with their booty up the mountains, well hidden by the sand-storm. In the scuffle a boy and two men were killed, all Jews—so it did not matter, so the folks said.
My husband was second captain at Teniet-el-Haad, having given up his rank as first captain in the Hussars in order to facilitate his return to a regiment. He was therefore the oldest in grade in the 1st Spahis, and the earliest vacancy as first captain fell to him. We had been at Teniet about ten months when he received orders to take command of the Laghouat squadron. It was the beginning of February; snow lay thick and deep on the ground up in this high altitude, and the great question arose how we were to get to Laghouat. Should we take the short cut by carriage across the mountains to Boghar, where the regimental brake would meet us and take us on, or go down to Affreville by the rickety diligence, train to Medeah, and continue by carriage?
Going by train was a difficulty and an extra expense on account of our dogs. We had four—three fox-terriers and a shooting dog. I do not know what he called himself, but he had a double-barrelled nose and an over-frank and exuberant nature. He and Charleston, the old fox, could not bear each other. It was quite impossible to put them together in the dog-box, and to pack them separately would have cost as much as four times as many children. So, in consideration of their feelings and our purse, we decided—oh, irony!—to take the short cut if the snow and slush would allow of a carriage travelling along the narrow mountain tracks.
We consulted the different French and native authorities, and finally decided, if the snow and slush would allow, to take the short cut over the mountains. We started off one fine morning at five, in a small brake lent by a Caid, who also promised to send us four strong mules to an inn some twenty miles off. The first twenty miles were soon done, and at half-past seven we were enjoying some good hot coffee, whilst our Spahi was unharnessing his team and making inquiries as to the whereabouts of the new relay and coachman. Ten minutes after he appeared, with a very concerned face. “Mon capitaine, Sidi Belgacun has sent two mules no bigger than donkeys, and the boy who drives them is a mere baby!”
This sounded cheerful, and with one accord we went out to inspect. The Spahi’s account was unfortunately but slightly exaggerated, and we stood staring at our tiny steeds with dismay. We had still fifty kilometres before us, and the roads for at least twenty-five were nothing but cross-country paths. Should we turn back, or try to find other horses and go on? I voted emphatically for going on. Aided by the Spahi, my husband finally unearthed a man and two horses, and at eight o’clock we set off once more.
Everything again went well for ten kilometres; then our misfortunes really began. When going up a hill the ground grew soft and the wheels of the brake sank in.
“The snow is melting farther on,” remarked the coachman, laconically; “the underground springs are overflowing.”
On we went laboriously, our Jehu yelling at the struggling horses, whilst the carriage wobbled to and fro in a most alarming fashion. “Don’t you think it would do us good to walk a bit?” I suggested. “It would make things easier for the horses.”
“It would be safer,” said my husband, who was looking anxious.
So out we got—and two minutes later the whole concern toppled over, our boxes, portmanteaux, and packets flying all over the place. The horses were plunging and kicking; the coachman, an Italian, and the Arab boy were yelling and swearing in their respective languages, whilst my husband exclaimed in French (he doesn’t swear, but I am sure he would have liked to on this occasion). The scene was so unutterably comic that I could not help myself; I laughed until the tears rolled down my cheeks. I draw a curtain over the face my better half turned on me—scowling was not in it—and although I assured him I was really quite as upset as the carriage he has not recovered from my frivolity to this day.
The men picked up the carriage and the baggage and put all in order and we thought we should get on again, but, alas! the wheels refused to move an inch; the more we tried the deeper they sank. After two hours of vain endeavour, Peppino, the coachman, suggested sending Ali to have a look round the country to see if he could find a village and get men with spades to come and dig us out. The boy set off, returning later with five stalwart men, who comparatively soon dug us out and accompanied us for a few kilometres on our way, pushing and yelling when necessary. Then they left us, saying the road was good right up to Boghar. It was now past two o’clock, and our lunch loomed very dimly in the far distance, having been ordered for twelve o’clock at Boghar.
About three o’clock we saw snow on the side of the road, which again grew slushy and soft. My husband and Peppino were obliged to run behind, pushing at the wheels at the difficult places, whilst the Arab boy cheered on his mules and Peppino’s horses.
The snow got deeper and deeper. Presently we passed a carriage abandoned on the side of the road, farther on a dead horse, and again a form, which looked terribly human, covered by a white pall.
After a while we came to a wider part. On the right was a sloping mountain-side half covered with snow, half with golden narcissus, and showing a dry watercourse, dotted about with huge stones. On the left was a smooth field of snow, across which wheel marks could be distinguished. “We must cross here,” said Peppino, “as someone has before us; the snow is doubtless hard, and by whipping up the horses I will get you over. The road is impossible.”
My husband was not of the same opinion. He considered the watercourse a better road than a snow-field, and the presence of stones made him surmise that the bottom was hard.
The matter was hotly discussed, but finally my husband gave in, seeing that Peppino knew the road and he did not.
Away we galloped—bump, bump, bump. Then, without warning, there came a tremendous crack, and, lo and behold! there we were, sitting in our carriage, whilst the horses and Peppino continued with the wheels! It was, of course, a terrible dilemma, but again I had to laugh; it was really too funny.
My husband and Peppino carried me and the children and perched each of us on a stone, where I stood on one leg and cawed like a crow. “One should always take misfortunes gaily,” I said. That was the last straw; my better half had to laugh, but the smile was rather sickly. Then we held a council of war.
Peppino, good man, saved the situation. “I will go back with the horses and fetch the carriage we saw abandoned at the side of the road,” he said. “I know the owner, and will take the responsibility for borrowing it on my own shoulders.”
So off he went, whilst we cawed to one another from stone to stone and ate snow, there being nothing else to do. Before long Peppino returned triumphantly with the borrowed carriage, the luggage was transferred, and we started off again, leaving our first equipage standing disconsolately in the snow.
All went well until eight o’clock, although my husband and Peppino had constantly to push at the wheels. They both looked ten years older than at the start, so lined and weary were their faces. At about eight we came to a narrow track, a real road winding round the mountain above a fathomless precipice. On each side the snow lay in drifts of five and six feet deep, and the centre track showed no sign of previous passage.
We had not gone fifty yards along this road when the horses stopped and the wheels disappeared in a drift. Yelling, pushing, and pulling had no effect whatever. The horses were then harnessed to the splash-board, but their strenuous efforts only resulted in tearing it from the body of the carriage.
All this time I was sitting in the snow trying to keep the little one warm, and hopefully encouraging the two elder ones, Charlie and Renée. From the mountain top came the discordant howling and barking of jackals; from the blackness below arose the sad wailing of a hyena. I very nearly became tearful.
Peppino again offered his services, and proposed riding off to fetch help at a sheikh’s some ten miles away.
“Get into the carriage, wrap yourselves up warmly with everything available, and wait,” he said. “In five or six hours I will bring assistance.”
There was nothing else to be done, so we made the best of a bad job, packed ourselves up, and tried to sleep. The children, of course, succeeded at once, as did my husband, worn out with the efforts of the day, but I could not. My hunger was great, and I do not think I have ever before or since imagined such cold. Talk of African heat; African cold has the first place in my memory.
“I KICKED VIGOROUSLY, SHOUTING ‘HENRI!’ AND ‘PEPPINO!’”
The night was pitch-dark, and it was far from amusing to sit there listening to the animals prowling round. A hyena or so came very near to our mules, who shivered and snorted for a long time after.
Numbed with cold, I suppose I at last fell asleep. Suddenly I was awakened by a great commotion. Then came yelling, the sound of horses plunging, and I heard the children shrieking “Mother!” I rose precipitately, a light flashed in my face, baby was seized from me, and I myself was borne off like an infant by a man who appeared to be a giant. He hurried away up the mountain-side without a word, which did not at all seem to me the right behaviour of rescuers. Why thus seize us and bear us off into the mountains?
We must have been attacked by brigands, and my husband knifed as he slept! I kicked vigorously, shouting “Henri!” and “Peppino!” but received no answer, and my heart sank. Then I called “Charlie!” “Renée!” and to my great joy their voices answered quite close behind me. I therefore left off kicking—which, indeed, had no effect on my burly captor—and consoled myself with the thought that, though apparently a widow, I was not left childless.
After five minutes or so my giant began to shout. Other voices answered; then suddenly I was planted on my feet in the inky darkness, but almost at once a dozen matches were struck and held to a huge heap of dry brushwood. In two seconds we had a royal bonfire, which not only warmed us but lit up the country all round.
Brigands or no brigands, I thought, these Arabs were very thoughtful fellows.
I asked several times, “Where is my husband?” but they all raised their hands and shoulders in vague denial of any knowledge of his existence. I was beginning to be really alarmed when his welcome form loomed in view astride a mule. I do not think we have ever quite understood how he came to miss us in the confusion caused by the headlong arrival of our rescuers. He had galloped after us along a road where we had not been at all; but, not finding us, had come back, and had been guided by the firelight.
After a good warming at the fire we started for the sheikh’s house, ten miles off, the children being carried by Arabs on horseback, and I astride a mule on a “barda.” On our arrival we found couscous and sour milk awaiting us, and—what was far better—some good mattresses spread on the ground in a big, white-washed room. At ten next morning we left, the kindly sheikh having lent us his wagonette. Peppino had gone back with some Arabs to dig out and bring along Carriage Number Two.
THE BARONESS DE BOERIO, WHO HERE DESCRIBES HER ADVENTURES IN ALGERIA.
[From a Photograph.]
About half-way to Boghar we met the regimental brake coming spanking along. The soldier driving told us that at eight o’clock an Arab had come to him saying that he was to harness up at once and drive for eight miles along the Teniet road, when he would find the Spahis’ captain, who was stranded with his family at Sheikh ben Shinan’s.
This experience of Arab telegraphy rather astonished us, for we were still greenhorns in this respect. Since then nothing of the kind surprises us; I have often learnt of distant happenings from the Arabs long before our own civilized methods brought me the news. Arabs travel a great deal by night, passing on the tidings from one to another—they are terrible gossips—so that it is the case of the hare and the tortoise. Their signalling is done by movements of the burnous by day and fires by night. In each district certain heights are especially used for this purpose. Whilst travelling by road on one occasion I remember hearing a long hoot-like call, and on looking in the direction of the sound I saw an Arab on a hill, evidently signalling with his burnous, for he was making regular up-and-down and to-and-fro movements with it. Half an hour after we saw another Arab with a huge flock of sheep. In the evening, when we arrived at the place we meant to camp at, we found ourselves expected by the sheikh, and a hospitable couscous prepared. He bade us welcome, saying we were later than he had thought. When we inquired how it was he expected us at all, he only vouchsafed to say, with half-closed eyes, that he had known we were on the road some hours before, and had supposed we would stop the night there. Thereupon we remembered the white-robed Arab on the hill and the shepherd far away, and began to understand.
(To be concluded.)
“Shot-Gun Jim.”
By Edward Franklin Campbell.
It is safe to say that few commercial travellers meet with such exciting experiences as befell the three “drummers” who figure in this narrative. A business trip into the wilds of Arizona landed them into as fierce a skirmish with Indian outlaws as could well be imagined.
Take a young fellow just raw from city life, throw him into the wilds of Arizona, and arrange for him to tumble head-first, so to speak, into a brisk skirmish with Indians, and he will have something to remember. Such was the experience which befell me about 1890.
For some years I had been travelling through California, visiting the largest cities and towns, introducing a “line” of goods for a large San Francisco importing concern. Such had been my success that nothing would suit my firm but to add Arizona to my territory, a proposition I made no objection to.
Of late years Arizona has vastly improved, and trouble with the Indians has become almost unknown, especially since that notorious warrior, Geronimo, was deported to the State of Florida, but up to the ‘nineties there was still an occasional flare-up.
Both Geronimo and the villainous “Apache Kid,” a bloodthirsty red-skin brigand, figure in this story, the first indirectly and the second very prominently.
THE AUTHOR, MR. EDWARD FRANKLIN CAMPBELL.
From a Photograph.
Having reached the town of Wilson, in the southern part of the territory, I fell in with two fellow-commercial salesmen—Levy, representing a large dry-goods concern, and Bates, handling a line of boots for a St. Louis house.
Levy imparted the fact that he was going to visit a large mining camp, called World City, located some hundred and sixty miles to the north and as many miles distant from the railway. Bates said he would join Levy provided I would make one of the party.
Although my route did not include this side-trip, I became convinced that it would pay me well to visit World City. By sharing expenses with Levy and Bates, the trip could be made most reasonably, so I wired my house accordingly, and Levy hastened to make arrangements with a local celebrity, a Scotchman named McGill, for transportation.
An agreement having been made with McGill, the balance of the day was consumed in making preparations for our departure on the following morning. There were blankets to buy, for one is never safe without them. No matter how hot and burning the day may be, the nights are always crisp and chill on the Arizona plains, and one never knows while making such a trip when he will land at his destination. Nine chances out of ten he will be hours late. Our journey was no exception to the rule.
On the following morning I was aroused by McGill. On the wagon, which was a heavy four-wheel affair, he had loaded three shoe-sample trunks, the property of Bates, and two immense square trunks carried by Levy. Beside this there were sundry boxes and bundles of blankets, as well as our heavy overcoats and small personal luggage.
After a hasty breakfast of ham and eggs—I generally ordered ham and eggs in Arizona because other meats were far from tender in those days—we took our places on the wagon. Levy occupied the front seat with McGill, while Bates and I sat on top of a huge trunk, slippery and uncertain.
Although the animals seemed good and hardy, they were small, and I do not think we realized the great weight of the combined load. At the wheels we had a pair of small and nimble mules, and as leaders a pair of small bay horses, whose looks did not recommend them.
The first day out all went well, and we reached the little town of Bonita, a most desolate-looking place. We had travelled less than thirty miles.
We drove up to the door of a little adobe building with a thatched roof. On the front a crude sign informed the public that it was a “General Store.” Another placard indicated that it was also a public-house, or “saloon,” as they are called in America.
On entering we found ourselves in a small room with a rough counter running down one side, behind which was the smiling face of the proprietor, who lived with his wife and two beautiful daughters in the one adjoining room—these two rooms constituting the entire building.
We spent the night on the floor of the store, in front of the counter, and next morning resumed our journey, hoping to reach the little group of buildings known as Standard before night. In my own mind—and I think the others believed the same—I did not really expect to reach Standard that night, for it was nearly fifty miles distant and our animals were far from fresh.
I think it was about ten o’clock in the morning that we saw a cloud of dust several miles ahead. In time it proved to be a company of negro soldiers, marching to a neighbouring military post.
As they came alongside we could see a number of rifles sticking out of the canvas of the great covered wagons which accompanied them. They halted, and an officer, whom McGill said was a colonel, came over. He saluted us pleasantly and asked laughingly:—
“Are you not afraid to travel in this direction?”
McGill inquired why, whereupon the officer explained that “Apache Kid” was out with a small band of warriors, that Geronimo had disappeared from the Indian Reservation, and that serious trouble was brewing. The troops, he added, were being moved for the purpose of heading off “Apache Kid” and his crowd.
The smiling face of the colonel rather misled me. He did not seem really serious, and, as I sized up the situation, I believed it quite possible that he recognised our party as “tenderfeet,” and desired to frighten us.
After the soldiers had become a mere blur in the distance we resumed our journey. We had gone but a few miles farther, however, when an accident occurred to our wagon. Something gave way—I don’t remember what—and it became impossible to proceed. Levy took a look at the wagon and declared it was “no good, anyway”; Bates joined in the abuse, and McGill lost his temper. Finally, I acted as peacemaker, and suggested that something would have to be done as the afternoon was advancing. Either we must return to Bonita on foot, abandoning the wagon and contents, or McGill would have to take the team back and secure another conveyance.
The last alternative being accepted, we drew lots, and it fell to Levy to return to Bonita with McGill, while Bates and I remained to look after the property.
McGill insisted that with the load off he would be able to haul the wagon back to Bonita for repairs, so we set to work and, after a struggle with the trunks, got the vehicle in shape to be drawn.
It was with great misgivings that I saw my companions depart. It was not to my liking to remain as a guardian of that mass of luggage. Bates did not seem to mind it. He simply offered me his last cigar, then lighted it himself and sat down on the bare ground.
I think we could see in every direction for twenty miles and more, except toward the mountains, which were to the east, some five miles distant.
“Well, Bates,” I said, “what are we going to do? It’s getting mighty cold. The wind sweeps down from that mountain as if we might get a little of the storm brewing up there.”
“That’s no mistake, my boy, and if I am not in error we are going to get snow inside of two hours. Most extraordinary for Arizona.”
“Don’t you think we could arrange some shelter with these trunks and roll of canvas?”
“Just the thing, my boy. Glad you suggested it.”
So we set to work and built our house, forming our walls by arranging the trunks in a square, leaving a small opening to be used as a door. On this we spread the great piece of canvas which had been brought along to cover the wagon in case of storm, thus making a roof. That it might not be carried away by the wind, which was now howling like a hurricane, we weighted it with small boulders. With other rocks we built a small fireplace and chimney, without and facing our door. With the limited supply of wood, which was very scarce—sagebrush and gnarled mesquite—we built a small fire in our fireplace, much to our joy, for we were now actually blue with the cold.
The sky was now thoroughly overcast with snow-clouds and the snow was beginning to fall, settling in miniature drifts beneath the sage bushes.
In removing the trunks from the wagon our labours had been heavy, and we realized, as Bates expressed it, “we were twenty miles from nowhere, and not a drop of water nearer than Bonita.”
Bates rummaged through the kit for a drink of any kind, but was only able to produce a diminutive flask with about one swallow of whisky in it. After offering this to me he took it down with a cheering “Here’s to you!”
“Don’t throw away that flask, Bates,” I called to him as I saw him taking aim at a near-by sage bush. “I may be able to collect a drink with that.”
I filled the little flask as full as I could pack it with snow which I collected under the bushes, then held it carefully over the fire, reducing the snow to water. This barely gave us enough to moisten our lips, and I gave it up.
Then we wrapped ourselves up in our blankets and reclined inside our improvised house and discussed matters.
“I say, Bates, what did you think of the colonel’s story about Apaches being out?” I asked.
“Can’t say. I know if I were an Apache and had a warm wigwam to crawl into, the warpath could go to perdition. I’m sure I wouldn’t bother with it this kind of weather. You won’t have the pleasure of meeting Geronimo, ’Apache Kid,’ nor any other human—and, I might add, inhuman—being till the weather lets up.”
“What have you got for protection in case we do run across them?” I asked.
“Well, the only protection I have is a pair of boots made by the Sun Shoe Company, which I represent. With these on, and a fair start, I might outrun them. That’s all I’ve got for protection. What have you got?”
“Well,” I said, rather apologetically, “I have a revolver here, but it isn’t much good. It might do to fire salutes with, but I’m afraid it would not do much execution. The fact is, I’ve not fired the thing for some years.”
“Now, look here, my boy. If you should ever shoot me with that thing, and I should find it out, I should be quite put out about it,” said Bates, with a laugh. “We might as well quit worrying. If the wild and woolly Apaches get us, it’s fate. They’ll get us, that’s all. I’m going to sleep.”
LOOKING OUT OF BRICK DUST CANYON.
[From a Photograph.]
Suiting the action to the word, he rolled over and left me to my dreary thoughts. I tried to sleep and did drop into a light slumber, from which I was suddenly awakened by a startled exclamation from Bates.
As I opened my eyes he was just going through the doorway on all fours.
“Bring that revolver here,” he called to me.
As quickly as possible I was out after him. He was gazing towards the mountains in the distance.
“What has happened?” I asked, in some alarm at the sudden call to arms.
He explained that something had come to the door of our house. He could hear it, but only caught a slight glimpse of it as he raised his head, for it dashed out of sight immediately. It was evidently an animal of some sort, for we found the marks of its feet and claws in the soft earth. Whatever it was we never caught sight of it.
We were now thoroughly awake. The weather had cleared, the sun was shining warmly and my spirits were beginning to rise.
Far off, down the incline of the plain, we could see the spot known as Bonita. Between us and the town all was open, save for some sage bushes here and there dotting the view.
Surely McGill should now be on his way back, but not a sign of him could we see.
We recalled the fact that we were hungry. Bates rummaged in the kit. The net results were a small paper of biscuits and a tin of beef—nothing else.
We ate all the biscuits and half of the beef, collected more firewood, and, at about six o’clock, discovered the team slowly wending its way from Bonita. It was more than an hour before it arrived at our camp.
Another serious matter now confronted us. Either we must stay with our improvised camp or, as McGill suggested, make for Brick Dust Canyon, in the mountain, where lived a frontiersman named James W. Smith, who had a little farm situated on an oasis of productive earth in the midst of this vast wilderness of alkali and sand.
Eventually we decided upon the latter alternative, and succeeded in loading up and making a start.
For a long time we crept upward, no one riding except McGill, in order to relieve the tired animals.
Reaching the summit of the ascent at last, McGill stopped, for we had now to descend into a deep canyon.
Daylight had by this time given way to deepest night, and ahead all looked black and forbidding. Our driver could not even see the road, which was, moreover, obscured by a growth of trees in the canyon.
“Gentlemen,” said McGill, “this rig has no brake to hold it. There is a big down-grade here and a sharp turn at the bottom. From there to Jim’s house is about a mile. We must manage to stop one of the hind wheels, for these mules will never be able to hold the load in check; besides, I can’t see the road, and must let the animals take their course.”
We tied the right rear wheel with a stout bit of rope and started again, but with this difference—Levy, Bates, and I each lighted cigars, which Levy had brought from Bonita, and, puffing vigorously at these, walked ahead of the load, endeavouring to pilot McGill by the glow of the lighted “stogies.”
There were times when the mules and the locked wheel were insufficient to check the wagon to any great extent, on account of the steepness of the grade, but at first all went well. It was not long before we reached the sharp turn at the bottom. We were greatly in advance of McGill now, and, indeed, we could hear nothing of him, so Levy went back to investigate and to warn him of the danger ahead. He found the wagon halted at a fairly level spot to recuperate the exhausted animals. Levy told the Scotsman that he was about to plunge down the last and most precipitous piece of road, and urged him to give it up.
McGill was headstrong, however, and insisted upon going ahead, so we took up our stand with our cigars, to mark the turn at the bottom, and the big vehicle started.
We could hear it gaining speed every moment. Mingled with the rumbling of the wagon and the clatter of the animals’ hoofs we heard the shouts of McGill, who had now lost all control over his team.
On they came with a rush and a roar, and we, who were lighting the way, discovered we were in some danger. At the last moment we sprang back into the rocks and brush at the side as the team swept irresistibly on.
The leaders took the turn all right, but the next instant there was a crash and a yell from McGill. The wagon had left the road and plunged into a tree, the harness gave way, and Bedlam broke loose.
The Scotsman saved his skin by jumping fairly into a bush, while we sprang to the animals’ heads to check them. They showed, however, no disposition on their part to run away; they knew when they had had enough.
Away down in the distance we could see a light, which McGill said was at Jim’s house. He would leave us with the animals and seek assistance from the house, he told us.
“I shall go across-lots,” he shouted back to us, “by a trail which will save a lot of walking.”
For hours Bates, Levy, and I awaited his return in vain. We exhausted every topic of conversation we could think of, and at last, tired, disgusted, and feeling thoroughly out of sorts, we set off down the road, taking the animals with us.
Although we could still see the light, we walked for a long time before we actually arrived before a small adobe house, which was surrounded by a thick wall some eight feet high. The road led us to a pair of huge solid gates, which, being closed, prevented us seeing within. We called out, and in a few seconds a voice answered us, and we were conscious of someone approaching the gates with a lantern.
This proved to be Jim Smith himself. He seemed to be in a very merry mood, for, although we were total strangers, he almost laughed in our faces. He had a story to tell, it soon appeared, of a misfortune which had befallen our friend McGill.
It seemed that in attempting to take his short cut “across-lots,” the Scotsman had struck a cattle trail, which led to a watering-trough set beside a newly-dug well, the existence of which he knew nothing of.
By a curious accident, he walked straight into this well and plunged into eight feet of water.
It happened that Smith was at that moment bringing some young cattle into his walled enclosure, and, hearing the muffled cries of McGill in the well, believed they proceeded from a cow in difficulties.
Lantern in hand, he made his way to the well and called out. Judge of his surprise when he heard a voice, as from the tomb, growl:—
“I’ve lost my bloomin’ pipe!”
Looking into the well, he discovered McGill clinging to the sides as best he could with fingers and nails. It was but a moment’s work to throw him a line and bring him out, as sorry and dejected-looking a scarecrow as one could imagine. Strange to relate, it was all that Jim could do to keep McGill from going back into the well for his cherished briar, the loss of which seemed to worry him greatly.
We found the Scotsman in a very bad temper, complaining bitterly of the loss of his pipe, which he told us he was smoking at the time of his misfortune.
We received a hearty welcome from Jim and his wife. The latter was busy soothing their ten-months-old baby to sleep. There they lived, in that little one-room house, eating, sleeping, and cooking in the same apartment.
“SHOT-GUN JIM.”
From a Photograph.
I began to speculate as to where we tired travellers would find a place to lay our heads. The house was a solid adobe, without windows. In the doorway hung a frame, on which was fastened a strip of canvas in lieu of a door.
A hearty meal was prepared by Mrs. Smith, after which we were invited to go out and bring in our beds.
On our return we found that Mrs. Smith and the babe were already in the huge bed in the corner. Jim was preparing to follow, and we were invited to spread our blankets on the floor, which, like the Bonita store, was mother earth.
Our sleep was far more restful than on the previous night. At an early hour we were awakened by Smith, who seemed to be worried about something. I followed him to the door of the house and discovered that he was holding a whispered conversation with a stranger, a young fellow of about eighteen years. As soon as I approached they stopped speaking and I was introduced to the young man, whose name was given as “Hank.”
Suddenly Smith spoke:—
“We might as well tell ’em about it, Hank,” he said. “They’ve got to know it sooner or later. Tain’t safe to get out of this place now. Besides, your horse is used up.”
I glanced in the direction indicated, and saw a horse covered in lather, with drooping head and general dejected appearance. I knew he must have had fearful riding to be in this condition.
“Well, you tell ’em, Jim,” replied Hank. “I reckon we’re here, all of us, to stay awhile.”
“I can’t afford to remain, Mr. Smith,” I said, thinking that the wrecked wagon might be the reason for the conversation. “If the outfit will hold together I think we had better go on as soon as possible.”
Smith looked at me with pitying eyes.
“You may never leave this place at all,” he returned, gravely. “This young man is the only survivor of a massacre, about ten miles from here. ‘Apache Kid’ and his band are, perhaps, at this very moment close to our gates.”
Instinctively I glanced at the gates, and noticed for the first time that heavy timbers were propped against them.
“Not only that, but McGill has disappeared,” continued Smith. “I think he may have gone in search of his pipe. We dare not risk going outside the enclosure, and he must get back as best he can.”
Just then the others of our party and Mrs. Smith, with the babe in her arms, joined us, having begun to realize that something was amiss.
Then Jim began to organize his forces. First he took an inventory of the available arms and ammunition, calling on our party to exhibit such weapons as we had about us.
Next Jim brought out a number of guns. There were three excellent repeating rifles, with several hundred rounds of ammunition, and an old shot-gun, which proved of no value. Next came Jim’s own pet—a beautiful double-barrelled shot-gun. With these were several boxes of ammunition. Last came a motley array of “six-shooters,” a part of which were serviceable and for which there was a limited amount of ammunition. Two hand-axes and a small affair for chopping firewood were counted as weapons for close quarters.
The whole lot was delivered into the care of Mrs. Smith, who was instructed to load the guns and arrange the ammunition conveniently on a table brought from the house.
At odd moments the good woman was assembling quantities of food, so that, in case of an attack, prolonged or otherwise, we might have her services at the ammunition.
Meanwhile Hank had been sent to the top of the house, which had a low, flat roof, where he was keeping close watch with a pair of field-glasses. He called to Jim that he believed he had discovered McGill in the topmost branches of a tree, a long distance up the canyon. It appeared that he was making signals, for we soon discovered that he occasionally waved a white handkerchief, and he appeared to be trying to draw our attention to something to the south.
Presently Hank reported that McGill was climbing down the tree, and in a moment he was running down the road towards the house as fast as his long legs would carry him. Jim prepared to open one of the gates.
Just then a shot rang out, followed by others. We could hear McGill coming full tilt. Jim opened the gate a little way and reported that a band of Indians were in close pursuit of the Scotsman.
A moment later, breathless and exhausted, McGill flung himself through the open gate, which was speedily secured behind him.
As quickly as possible Jim ran a rough wagon out of a shed and placed it alongside of the wall. It was evident now why this latter had been built high and strong; the reason for placing the wagon beside it, however, was not yet evident to us.
Soon we heard the rush of a score of Indian horses, the whoops and yells of their savage riders, and the crack of their rifles.
Their shots did no damage, however, but were sufficiently accurate to cause Hank to dodge behind the stone chimney, whence he dropped over the edge to the ground.
There was a savage onslaught upon the immense heavy gates, but they held firm, being well braced by the timbers. So far not a sound had escaped us, and it was evident that the Indians were chagrined that they had not made a greater impression.
For a few moments we could hear them in consultation before the gates, and presently a voice called out in broken English.
To this no reply was made, nor was any evidence of life vouchsafed from our side.
“Now, boys,” whispered Jim, “get ready. They’re going to show their heads in a minute—just over there, near the wagon. That is the easiest place for them to look over, and I have tried to make it look more inviting. So look alive and each pick his game. Don’t miss, or there’ll be trouble.”
Next moment five ugly Apache heads bobbed up over the wall simultaneously. They were evidently so sure that the place was unprotected that four of them, in their enthusiasm, clambered half-way on top of the wall before they became aware of the reception that had been planned for them.
The volley that followed their appearance was almost like one shot, and the four most daring red-skins received the bullets intended for them. Two were killed instantly, and partly hung over the wall as they doubled up; two others, mortally wounded, slid off the wall and were dragged away by their companions. The less venturesome got away with a whole skin.
With our volley pandemonium seemed to break loose; the red-skins let out a yell that fairly chilled us to the bone. Jim called us to seek shelter at the rear of the house.
We were none too soon, for a terrific fire was poured into the enclosure by the Indians, who were taking haphazard shots towards us, without putting their heads into jeopardy.
“THE VOLLEY FOLLOWING THEIR APPEARANCE WAS ALMOST LIKE ONE SHOT.”
Presently we discovered that one lot of the savages were trying to burrow under the gates, and were indeed making some headway. Jim seemed to be everywhere at once, using his shot-gun as his sole means of defence. The moment a hand was seen in the growing excavation under the gate he let drive with his shot-gun, and another Indian was out of commission.
I remember I kept a sort of mental tally of the fallen. Hank had told me that there were about twenty-three in the band, so I calculated: “Four dead on the first attack on the wall; one shot through the hand, under the gate. Balance to their credit—eighteen.”
Just then we received an unexpected shock. We saw a curl of smoke rising above the gates; the savages were piling brush against them, to which they had already set fire. This was a serious matter, which even Jim had not calculated upon. He ordered us to lie low while he took a look round.
I was so interested to know what he would do that I could not resist the temptation to put my head around the corner of the house, and this is what I saw.
Jim crept on hands and knees towards the wagon which we had placed against the wall. In a moment he had reached it, shot-gun in hand, and silently and slowly raised himself into it, gradually straightening out with his head and arms just above the wall. Then, quick as a flash, he took aim. There was a crash—or rather a double crash, for he had fired both barrels—an awful yell from the Indians, and he was speeding back to safety.
“I FELT MYSELF BEING DRAGGED OVER.”
One savage, braver than the rest, took a quick shot at him. The bullet did no harm to Jim, but came near being fatal to me, for I had been so intent on watching him that I now found that I had unconsciously stepped into the open.
Instead of bolting for shelter, I had but one thing in mind—to check up the account and see how many “good” Indians there were and how many bad ones.
Consequently, in a moment—foolhardy as it may seem—I was on the wagon, peering over the wall, taking account of the dead and wounded at the gates.
Although Jim’s shot-gun had done fearful execution, there were but two who appeared to be actually dead.
Just then something struck me in the face, a hand grasped me from over the wall, and I felt myself being dragged over, into the arms of the “Apache Kid” himself! Several other savages were running to his assistance. All that I can recall is that I thought my last hour had come, and struck out blindly with my fists, clinging, as best I could, to the wall with my legs.
I am not an experienced boxer, but I had the advantage over my assailant, for I was uppermost.
Things seemed to be going badly with me, however, for I felt my hold on the wall gradually weakening.
Just at that instant I heard a rush behind me. I was so done up that I could only think of more Indians, but in reality it was Levy, Hank, and Jim coming to the rescue.
I was grasped from behind and felt that I should be pulled to pieces. I let out with my fists with renewed vigour, and landed such a fierce tattoo on the face of my captor that he involuntarily sought to protect his face with his hands, whereupon Levy, Hank, Jim, and I fell into a confused heap over the side of the wagon.
It was a few minutes before they restored me to my senses, and I found myself with clothing half torn off, covered with dust, and generally bruised.
My first words were:—
“Two killed, three wounded badly; net balance thirteen. That number is unlucky. We’ll win!”
“What in the name of common sense are you talking about?” asked Bates, who was bending over me.
“Well, there were twenty-three Indians when we started; we killed four at first shot, three at the second, and two at the third, besides wounding three beyond present help. That leaves thirteen, doesn’t it?”
We were recalled to a sense of our peril by the sound of breaking timbers. The gates were being forced!
Through the chinks we could see the Indians working industriously with a battering-ram, improvised from the trunk of a tree. At any moment the gates might fall, and we knew there would be little hope for us once the red-skins gained an entrance.
Jim now sent his wife inside the house for better protection. The little babe had, up to this time, been peacefully sleeping on the bed, which must now be used to barricade the door of the house. Consequently, the little fellow was disturbed as his mother moved the huge affair against the opening, and he, too, added to the din of the engagement.
“Now, gentlemen,” said Jim, “we’ve got to make a last stand. The gates will be down in a minute; they have been greatly weakened by the fire. Every one of you to the roof!”
Up to the roof we climbed as a last resort. I think we all realized the gravity of the situation.
We stretched ourselves flat, weapons in hand, and waited. It seemed ages. We could hear the cries of the infant mingled with the sobs of the distracted mother. Bates, who had an abominable voice, tried to sing a hymn. Smith told him to be quiet—the situation was trying enough without his music.
Presently there came a crash—the gates were down. In rushed the red-skins, a fearless crowd. There were just thirteen; I counted them.
“Now, gentlemen, let ’em have it,” called Jim, in a low tone.
Well, we did let them have it; there was no mistake about that. There was a blaze from the rifles, Jim’s shot-gun, and the revolvers, and we all pumped lead as fast as we could.
When the smoke cleared a little we looked below. There were eight red-skins as dead as ever they could be. Three more were crawling away on all fours, seriously wounded.
This left two on my record unaccounted for. We soon spied them making off over the little hills towards Brick Dust Canyon as fast as their legs could carry them.
One of them was “Apache Kid,” the leader. He got off with a whole skin, but I’ll wager that he had some marks about his face.
When we got down from the roof we could no longer hear Mrs. Smith or the babe, and feared they had been killed by stray bullets. Repeated calls failed to bring response.
When we forced an entrance we found her in a dead faint, lying on the bed beside the infant, who was chewing his fist and chuckling as if in great glee.
Woman-like, Mrs. Smith deferred her swoon till all danger was past.
To the delight of McGill, his miserable briar was recovered that day by Jim, who said he did not want the well spoiled, otherwise he would have left it there.
“Shot-gun Jim”—for that is how he is always known now, on account of his fearful execution with his shot-gun, for it was he who really saved the day—has never been troubled by Apaches since. He still insists on living in that forsaken spot, forgetful of the terrible scenes of carnage and danger he has passed through, working at a copper mine which he discovered up beyond Brick Dust Canyon.
A Perilous Mission.
By S. F. Martin, late of the Royal Niger Company’s Service.
The modestly-told story of a daring deed. At a time of great anxiety, when England and France were on the verge of conflict in Africa and the powerful Mohammedan native States were watching for an opportunity of throwing off the yoke of both countries, Mr. Martin was District Agent of the Royal Niger Company at Borgu. He was instructed to secure reliable information as to what was happening in the turbulent robber kingdom of Kontogora, and he obtained it by the hazardous expedient of disguising himself as a Haussa and, taking his life in his hands, penetrating right into the enemy’s capital. His adventures during this journey are set forth below, though the narrative contains barely a hint of the strain of the ordeal or the awful fate that would have befallen the author had his real identity been suspected.
Towards the latter end of 1898, before the conquest of Nigeria, I was placed in charge of the interests of the Royal Niger Company, Chartered and Limited, in the Borgu district of the Niger Territories. My instructions, amongst other things, were to watch events, political and otherwise, and to report the same to head-quarters.
It was a time of great stress and no little peril to our West African Empire, for not only were the various races of the Territories in a state of unrest and hostility to the white man’s domination, but at that period we were also at loggerheads with the French, whose troops were encroaching on our frontiers from all sides, necessitating a special field force being formed, under Colonel (later General Sir Frederick) Lugard, to deal with the situation. The native Mohammedan States, seeing this, thought to take advantage of the crisis to the detriment of both nations.
The most turbulent of all these native States was Kontogora, a town lying to the eastward of the Niger River. At the time of which I write there were British troops at Jebba, Leabba, Boussa, Roffia, Gomba, Lafagon, and Illa, as well as smaller garrisons scattered about, all on the Niger. There was a strong force also at Zaria, a large town away to the east, some distance south of Kano. The French were prowling about in between.
It being reported that Kontogora was preparing to take up arms, I determined to find out the facts of the case for myself, as, if this State seriously intended causing trouble and gained any successes against us, the whole Mohammedan Empire was sure to rise to a man, and it would be difficult for us to hold our own, to say nothing of expelling the French. My orders were to remain in Boussa, but, having weighed the pros and cons very carefully, and decided that it would be well within the spirit, if not exactly the letter, of my instructions to take the action I intended, I determined to find out in person how far this rumour was true and how great the danger really was to our Imperial interests. I had mastered the Haussa tongue, the prevailing language of those regions, and could hold my own easily with the Haussas themselves, my natural aptitude for picking up tongues standing me in good stead. Consequently, without informing anyone where I was going, beyond leaving word that I was off on a shooting trip, on the night of the 17th of November, 1898, I dyed myself from head to foot a deep brown, arrayed myself in very shabby Haussa clothes, and set off, with my guide, Mama, for Kontogora. I took the name of “Abdu Maidowda”—Abdu the dirty. All carriers in Haussaland take nicknames, given them by their masters or companions. It is seldom that a white man ever knows the real names of his servants.
We tramped all that night, and next morning stopped at a small village in the midst of farmlands in the N’gaski Kingdom. The whole country hereabouts was bitterly hostile to the white man’s régime. The state of unrest was manifest everywhere; people went armed to their work in the fields, as raids from neighbouring towns seemed to be of frequent occurrence. Although the various native kingdoms were quite at one with regard to their hatred of the white man, yet amongst themselves they were always warring and raiding for slaves—the big towns bullying the smaller villages. The main cause of this was the heavy slave tribute levied by the Sultan of Sokoto—the great head of the Moslem Church in the Sudan—on all his vassal States.
Having rested for a few hours, we set out again about midday. It was fiercely hot as we trudged through the guinea-corn fields that stretched for miles all around us, and the heat, striking down from the fiery sun, that hung directly overhead, made me dizzy. I staggered along at times in a kind of hot, sweltering day-dream—seeing things that did not exist, and thinking the most absurd thoughts. Once I called a halt at a well of very dirty water, flung myself down on my hands and knees, and bathed my head and neck for several minutes, Mama looking on amused. The people in the fields were gathering in the corn in feverish haste, but every now and then they paused long enough to question us as to our destination and whence we came. We invariably told the same tale—we were travelling to Kontogora from Illorin.
THE AUTHOR, MR. S. F. MARTIN, IN HAUSSA DRESS.
From a Photograph.
It must have been about 4 p.m., judging by the sun, when, on that second day out, we topped a rise of rocky ground and came face to face with the head of a caravan of some thirty people, with a large number of goats, coming from the westward. There were several women on donkeys, ten armed men on horseback, and the balance consisted of carriers. As we stood watching them the caravan halted and one of the horsemen came prancing up to us with a great flourishing of his spear. He asked us, very roughly, whence we came and whither we were bound. Mama answered that we were from Illorin, whither we had taken loads for a rich merchant from Kano, and were now bound for Kontogora, where we hoped to obtain work, as we understood that the Emir was preparing for war on the white man. He then asked our questioner if we might not join his caravan, and if he would let us carry a load each in return for our food. At this we were taken before the head of the party, who proved to be an enormously fat woman. With a wave of the hand she gave her consent, and we were forthwith enlisted in the line of coolies.
We pushed on that afternoon to some farmhouses, where we halted for the night. The fat lady took up her abode in the headman’s hut, and we carriers wandered about to find quarters for ourselves. For the most part we slept in the open, beneath a great tree growing outside the entrance to the headman’s compound. Mama and I had no intention of losing sight of our companions, as we did not wish to let slip this excellent chance of getting in to Kontogora, which was also the destination of the caravan, without danger of possible discovery. The farm people were good enough to give us food and drink, and also supplied us with plenty of firewood.
After sitting around the fire for a short time, we coolies one by one curled up on our mats (each carried a small grass mat) and, with our feet to the fire, slept the dreamless sleep of the utterly weary.
Next morning I was awakened by Mama shaking me by the shoulder. My clothes were wet with dew, and I commenced to shiver with cold, cursing myself in my sleepy condition for being so foolish as to put myself in such a perilous predicament.
As I arose and stretched myself I beheld silent forms passing to and fro, and signs that the world was awakening became increasingly evident. Then fires were lit and breakfast cooked; but not before we had washed our eyes, mouth, and hands, uttering a few words from the Koran the while. After partaking of boiled guinea-corn and soup, we espied the fat lady preparing to mount her donkey, and, securing our loads, took our place in the column that began to form up. Soon we were once again trudging through the open country on our way to Kontogora.
“ONE OF THE HORSEMEN CAME PRANCING UP TO US WITH A GREAT FLOURISHING OF HIS SPEAR.”
All along the route I was struck with the apparent haste with which the people were gathering in the corn. Our companions told us that the Seriki (King) of Kontogora was preparing to wage war on the white man, and had ordered his people to get in all their corn at once.
The day before we entered Kontogora we were overtaken by a raiding party, who were returning to that place with their spoil—about twenty young girls and women, as well as several little children—all tied together, each having one wrist made fast to the neck, across the chest.
Their captors were Fulehs and Haussas, on horseback, armed with swords and spears, and one or two with guns. Some of the poor captives looked terribly emaciated, and could hardly get along. I saw one woman get a slash of a hippo hide whip across the face, that sent her reeling to the ground, with a great gash on her forehead. The incident stopped the whole column for a few minutes, as the woman was fastened to her fellow-prisoners by the neck, and, when she fell, prevented them from advancing. The whip was then applied freely in all directions. The chief of the band ordered the wounded woman’s squirming comrades to pick her up and carry her, but they were unable to do so, being too utterly worn out, I could see. They were coated in dust from head to foot, and the perspiration trickling down their naked skins and mingling with the dust made the poor things appear a sorry sight. The band had, apparently, captured them at some far-distant spot, and must have brought them along at a great pace, judging by the rate they were going when they overtook us.
Furious at their inability to pick the woman up, the ruffian in command raised his spear and plunged it three times into the body of the prostrate woman. He followed this up by actually trampling her under his horse’s feet, while I groaned in an agony of horror and impotent rage at the ghastly spectacle.
The brute, having satisfied himself that his victim was dead, cut the grass rope that bound her to her fellows with a slash of his sword, and ordered the party to proceed. They left us at a quick walk—some of the poor captives even running in their terror—and were soon out of sight over a rise in the ground. Our party followed at a slower pace in dead silence, leaving the poor mangled thing by the roadside to provide a meal for the vultures and hyenas that would soon be on the scene. I for one, however, realized then that no wild beast of the desert could compare for utter brutality and lust for blood with the human satyrs who overran that land at the time of which I write. For miles around, between Kontogora and the Niger, and farther afield to the north, south, and east, the smoking ruins of raided villages told the ever-repeated tale of death and violence, robbery and rapine, and I knew full well what would happen to me should my disguise, by any mischance, be penetrated.
About five miles outside Kontogora our caravan was stopped by some horsemen who came galloping towards us and drew up across our path. They had a long parley with our chiefs before allowing us to proceed, and only did so on payment of a toll. These men were scouts, and I found out later that the whole country for five miles around the city was effectually patrolled, no one being allowed to enter or leave without permission. When we finally arrived outside the walls of Kontogora it was night, and in the moonlight the scene was beautiful and striking. The high castellated ramparts, with watch-towers over the gates, looked strange and fantastic in the soft, mysterious light.
As we approached the gate we mingled with the members of another caravan. Mama and I were at the tail of the line, about five or six from the end. We chose this position to minimize the possibility of trouble, although there really seemed little chance of that in such a deceptive light. Still, there was just the chance, as we soon found out when the head of the caravan reached the gate. Here it was abruptly ordered to halt, and the guards held quite a long palaver before it was allowed to proceed. At the same time a little incident occurred that made my blood run cold for a few minutes. There was a cry of “Abokai! Abokai! Kai!” (“Friends! Friends! Halloa, there!”) from the gate, and the whole column was soon calling “Aboki! Aboki!” (“Friend! Friend!”)—the Haussa manner of hailing anybody. They were shouting, it soon appeared, for myself and Mama, and we were speedily hustled forward by our companions. When we reached the gate our employer, the fat lady merchant who had engaged us, indicated us to the guards with a haughty wave of the hand. We could see a crowd of mounted and unmounted men in the darkness of the gateway, and one among these, who seemed gigantic in the moonlight as he rode forward on a horse equally gigantic, curveted up to us. Striking my turban from off my head with the tip of his spear, he loudly asked for our names. I answered that we were two poor travellers from Illorin, come to offer our services to the Emir. He asked us where our belongings were and the money that our master had paid us at Illorin. I told him that the white man had met us on the road and taken everything, as we were friends of Kontogora. At this the captain of the gate gave vent to some extremely sulphurous language. Then, with a slight movement of the reins, he caused his horse to rear up on his hind legs and, with pawing fore-feet, to burst furiously through the crowd of coolies round about us, trampling one or two badly. Finally, the caravan was allowed to move on under the gate into the town. As we entered, the mallams (priests) were calling to prayer, and the long-drawn cry, like an appeal for mercy, floated through the night, striking on the air with that strange, indefinable sense of mysticism that belongs to the East alone.
We wound in and out, out and in, through the moonlit streets with their black shadows, their mud walls, and conical, thatch-roofed houses. Then we emerged into the market-place, near which our employer resided. Entering her compound, we put down our loads, and, seating ourselves, awaited our wages. Mama and I were the first to be paid. We were handed one string apiece of cowrie shells—equivalent to one shilling each, at that time and place. We haggled over this like true-born carriers for fully half an hour, and, as the fat lady’s head slave refused to budge, accepted what we got with a blessing—and promptly received another five hundred cowries for our good nature. The Haussa will often do this, for, as much as he fears a curse, by so much does he value a blessing. A great many rogues take advantage of this trait in the native character.
Having been paid off, Mama and I left the compound rejoicing. Here we were, in the very heart of Kontogora—scatheless! We wandered into the market-place, where some people were still loitering, and decided to sleep in one of the stalls and begin our investigations in the morning.
It was many hours before I got to sleep, as my feet ached fearfully and were badly torn and blistered. During the march I had alternately gone barefoot and in sandals to rest them, and at times I got badly knocked about when carrying the leathers in my hand. Several times during the night bands of young Haussas passed through the market-place, shouting and laughing, boasting what they were going to do to the Turawa (white man).
Four batches of labourers passed through also, between the time we retired and dawn, dragging dead horses out of the town. Tom-toms were going all the night; at times the whole air quivered with the rhythmical sounds. The quaint tinkling of the Haussa guitar rose and fell at intervals, and from time to time the weird notes of the “ghoghie,” or native fiddle, could be heard from the compounds. A spirit of excitement and revel seemed to pervade the whole town.
Next morning we loitered about until the market began to fill, when we bought some food. We then repaired to the Galadima’s residence, and enlisted in the army of labourers that were employed in repairing the walls of the town. Many of these labourers were slaves, sent by the various chiefs and big men; others belonged to the Emir himself. About four hundred of us were dispatched to the north wall. Here some made bricks out of the soft clay; others, including myself, stood on the wall and laid them, and yet others passed those already dried up to us on the wall.
While working in this way I gathered a lot of information. Raiding parties had been out all the week, I learned, and spies and runners from Zaria brought in news every day concerning the movements of the white men in that city. Bands of armed men were continually bringing in slaves from the ruined villages in the surrounding country. It was said that N’gaski and Kontogora would join forces, attack the whites in Zaria, and drive them out. Dandugnsu and Ridjion, neighbouring towns, had promised their support in the campaign. I also learnt that orders had come in from the Sultan of Sokoto that the Emir was not to commence a war against the white man, but to remain on the defensive. The Emir of Kontogora had replied that he was quite prepared to meet all comers, from whatever direction—a pretty broad hint to Sokoto, I thought. One fellow laying bricks told Mama that the man who killed Lieutenant Thomson at Bida, in the late Niger Sudan campaign undertaken by the Chartered Company against the Fulehs of Bida and Illorin, was now in the town and was considered a very great hero.
About midday an order came for some twenty men to repair to the Emir’s compound. I was chosen as one of the gang, together with Mama. So off we marched. When we arrived we found that a horse and a cow had died, and were to be dragged out of the town and thrown into the moat under the walls. Tying up the hind legs with grass rope, we hauled the carcasses through the streets and out by one of the gates and dumped them into the ditch. Having finished our unpleasant task, we trudged back to the north wall and recommenced laying bricks.
One swaggering youngster had annoyed me very much all the morning. He was an overseer amongst the men, and apparently one of the wealthy young bloods of the town. Shortly after my return from removing the dead horse this youth strutted up to me and started cursing me roundly in Haussa, saying that I was more like a woman than a man and that my work was no good. Finally, raising his hand, he struck me in the mouth. Forgetting myself completely for the moment, I stepped up to the fellow, who promptly drew his sword. Without any trouble I disarmed him; then, catching him by the neck, I shook him like a rat and dropped him into the ditch on the far side of the wall.
For a moment there was dead silence; next a chorus of applause and laughter broke out. But Mama plucked me by the sleeve. “Go,” he said, in a low tone; “I will meet you to-night, an hour after sundown, at the place we slept in last night.”
“I SHOOK HIM LIKE A RAT AND DROPPED HIM INTO THE DITCH.”
Divining my danger, I slipped away and mingled with the crowd, nobody venturing to interfere. I passed down some side streets that zigzagged about confusingly, wandered in the outskirts of the town for an hour or more, and then made my way to the market-place, which I found swarming with people.
Buying some boiled guinea-corn, I sat down outside a stall and munched my lunch. The woman who sold me the food was a garrulous old person, but perfectly good-natured. She asked me all about myself, and I told her that I had come from Zaria, where I had fled through fear of the white men. She informed me that I had nothing to fear from them; were it not for their guns they would be quite harmless. Then I asked her when it was that Kontogora intended setting out to drive the Turawa from Zaria. “Go round the blacksmiths’ shops and inquire at the smithies,” was all the answer I could get. I thought the idea a good one, and, bidding my new friend “Good day,” I sauntered through the crowded market-place, stopping at various booths. In one of these some blacksmiths were hard at work, making arrow and spear heads from bits of iron and tin. As I stood looking at them I gathered, from the conversation that was going on around, that some of the Emir’s sons were expected to arrive in Kontogora that day, and that they were bringing some of the white men’s guns with them that were taken at Hella, when Lieutenant Keating’s party was massacred. Here was a bit of news worth having! The conversation turning on matters that did not interest me, I strolled on until I arrived at the head blacksmith’s shop, near the Emir’s compound, where I watched the hammers pounding the red-hot metal. I could see that the whole town was busy making arms, which boded ill for the whites.
Suddenly I heard a shout of “Gashi! Gashi!” (“There he is! There he is!”). Then there was a rush of feet, and a flash of swords in upraised arms. Evidently my pursuers had found me out. I backed into the blacksmith’s shop, followed by a yelling crowd, and caught a momentary glimpse of my tormentor of the morning. Then, without warning, something was thrown over my head, and I was dragged violently backwards, flung to the ground, and stunned by a succession of heavy blows.
When I came to my senses I found myself being hauled unceremoniously to my feet, my arms bound firmly. In this ignominious state I was dragged amid curses and cuffs through the town, a yelling crowd of bloodthirsty ruffians surrounding me. They hauled me through a doorway into a compound surrounded with high walls, on into a big building, through many rooms and passages, and ultimately down some rough steps into a filthy, stinking dungeon, reeking of mould and damp. Here, with a violent push, I was flung headlong to the bottom, where I lay helpless in absolute darkness.
The air was damp and chill, and the place was infested with all manner of loathsome crawling things; I could hear them tick-ticking and scuffling along the floor and walls. Shortly after my entry some filthy thing touched my fingers, and I shook it off with a yell. It was a dread place, and drove all hope of saving my life clean out of me.
How long I lay there I do not know; it was long enough, at any rate, for a sharp attack of fever to seize me and run its course. It racked my bones; I tossed and turned on the slimy floor, groaning aloud in my discomfort. The hot fever-blood throbbed in my head; my eyes and face burned, and my body became parched and dry. I moaned for water—oh, for one drop of cool water! At one time I thought I saw the door open and Mama enter and loose my bonds, but it was only a vision of my disordered brain. Finally I sank into unconsciousness. I awoke—drenched in a profuse perspiration—with men’s voices sounding round about me. A figure was standing over me holding a lamp—an earthenware, ewer-shaped vessel with a cotton dip—which gave a wavering yellow radiance and cast grim dancing shadows on the walls. I could see that the door was ajar, and a pale light was stealing into the horrible place from outside. Roughly I was dragged to my feet. I staggered a bit, but soon steadied myself, and—pushed, cursed, and beaten—I accompanied my captors up the steps and out into the light of day again, or, rather, of evening. One glorious breath of the upper air repaid me for all that I had suffered in that black hole of Kontogora. I did not care now if they were leading me out to kill me; I was not going to die like a rat in that horrible pit.
As we emerged from the compound we were joined by a chattering, mocking, hostile crowd of men, women, and children. Every now and then one of the latter would strike me with a stick, my guards making no effort to protect me. At last we entered the Emir’s compound and I was taken into his presence. He was seated on a dais covered with mats and a leopard skin, and was talking in a low monotone to some men lying round about him on the floor of the chamber.
The young blood that I had flung over the wall, and who was the cause of all my troubles, stepped out and told the King what I had done, asking leave to kill me then and there. Next, to my astonishment, Mama stepped out of the crowd and told the Emir plainly that he and I had come all the way from Illorin to serve him, and had intended craving his permission that morning had not my tormentor interfered and sought a quarrel with me, in which he had got thrown over the wall for his pains. Subsequently, through treachery, continued my faithful guide, my enemy had had me taken and flung into prison without the Emir’s knowledge.
The Emir, who seemed a decent sort of old man, listened patiently to his two petitioners. Then, advising my enemy to calm himself, he told one of his retainers to question me. I thanked Heaven that the simpleness of my disguise and my grip of the Haussa tongue precluded any very great possibility of detection. The Emir, before my questioner started, informed the assembled crowd that, were I proved to be a rebel and a traitor, he would hand me over to my enemy to do what he wished with.
My inquisitor was a type of the grovelling bully. He tried to put one or two posers to me, but got more than he expected in return; and I actually got a smile out of the Emir, which elicited the loud and flattering applause of the retainers, when I suggested that my questioner was behaving very like a traitor himself in trying to cast a slur on the character of one of the Emir’s most faithful subjects. I told that monarch that I had come all the way from Illorin to serve him, and this was the way I was being treated—dragged, beaten and bleeding, before him from a dungeon, and bound like a common slave. Suddenly the Emir asked me how many white men there were in Borgu; I told him about one hundred thousand, and more to come. He seemed greatly impressed, as well he might be. I then craved permission to enter his service, and he inquired if I could ride. I told him to try me. This he agreed to do. If I could ride and prove myself worthy of entering his service he said he would pardon my imprudence of yesterday and make me a member of his bodyguard.
My bonds were cut, and as these fell from me the pain of the blood returning to my swollen, half-numbed hands was excruciating. I managed, however, to keep a brave face. We retired from the Emir’s presence and waited outside under a great shady tree, where, eventually, a fiercely-pawing stallion was brought up, and I was ordered to mount. This I did, the brute biting, kicking, and plunging all the time. I had to get into one of those horrible native saddles that box you up completely, fore and aft. Once mounted, I let the horse do as he pleased, and he led me a terrible dance, rearing and plunging about, dashing first to one side and then another. As he was in the midst of his attempts to buck me off, the Emir appeared and stood watching the tussle with interest. As a matter of fact, the horse had not much chance when once I was on his back, for I had had a great deal of experience of the Haussa beast, and knew his ways. He soon grew tired, and within half an hour was quite submissive. I used no stick, but just sat quietly in the saddle. To my surprise and delight the Emir told me that the horse was mine, and that I was to come to see him on the morrow, about noon. I thanked him gratefully and rode off, Mama walking by my stirrup.
After a consultation we agreed that it would be dangerous to remain in the town any longer, as our enemies were bound to try to get the better of us, sooner or later. We therefore arranged that Mama should leave the town at once, and make for Boussa as best he could, on foot; I would leave that night. We then parted, and I was left alone in the midst of the enemy.
At sundown I rode through the south gate, but was immediately stopped by the guard. I told them that I came by order of the Emir, but they demanded proof. This was distinctly awkward, for, of course, I had no proof to give. I therefore resolved upon a bold stroke. I requested the chief to ride with me, telling him I would give him in confidence all the proof he would require. Unsuspectingly he rode up alongside. Leaning over towards him, I suddenly gripped him by the throat with both hands, at the same time ramming my heels into my horse’s sides. The startled animal leapt forward, wrenching my opponent from the saddle with a jerk, and I swung him across my horse’s withers, where I held him—my right hand on his throat, my left gripping his left knee, bending him backwards like a bow. In this fashion we flew along the path by which two days before I had entered the robber city on foot.
A howl of execration and a clatter of hoofs followed us, and a shower of arrows and spears fell harmlessly on either side of me. When we had gone about a quarter of a mile I slid my hapless prisoner off on to his head, intending to stun him. My horse, feeling the relief, went away at renewed speed, and I had no difficulty in outdistancing my pursuers, especially as they stopped to see to their unconscious chief. I met one party of traders coming into the town, but they stood aside to let me thunder past, not doubting that I was an emissary of the Emir on some urgent business. The moon was just rising as I topped a low ridge, and all the world was soon bathed in a soft and silvery veil of light. Kontogora was far behind in the plain, the thousand conical roofs away in the distance looking strangely unreal.
As I drew near the five mile radius I began to wonder how I was going to get through the line of scouts. Capture now would mean death in some horrible form or other; at all costs I must not be taken alive. Suddenly I heard a shout far away on my right, and in the dim light saw a body of horsemen coming my way. Touching my mount with my heels I again gave him his head, and he flew like the wind, with ever-increasing speed. The pace was terrific and absolutely foolhardy in that light, although the road was fairly good. I expected every moment to be pitched head foremost to the ground, but the surefooted beast kept on without a stumble. The shouts and thunder of hoofs behind grew fainter and fainter, until at last, to my infinite relief, they entirely died away. Still, however, I kept on. Here and there, when the road passed through a village or beside a farm, frightened figures would slink away into the shadows and a startled cur would burst into a violent fit of barking, as I clattered by on my panting steed, now reeking and white with sweat.
“IN THIS FASHION WE FLEW ALONG THE PATH.”
I rode fast all through the night, my horse showing splendid spirit and pluck, and at sunrise halted on the banks of a river. Leaving my hard-ridden beast to cool a little first, I then watered him and, cutting some guinea-corn stalks from a patch near by, gave him a good feed, munching some myself at the same time and quenching my thirst at the river. Then, after about two hours’ rest, I proceeded, but at a lesser speed.
I rode all that day and well into the night, finally resting by the pool where I had cooled my heated brow on the way to Kontogora. After some hours’ halt I pushed on again, obtaining food at farmhouses on the way, and next evening, utterly weary, arrived at the Niger opposite Boussa. My journey was over; I was safe at last! Arriving at my quarters in the Niger Company’s compound, I flung myself down on my camp bed just as I was and slept for sixteen hours.
The faithful Mama turned up four days later. He went to Yauri, a friendly State, coming down river by canoe. For his services I presented him with the Emir of Kontogora’s horse.
During all the years that have gone by since my secret trip to Kontogora and my subsequent escape I have never regretted having run the double risk of disobeying orders on the one hand and risking my life on the other. I had been instructed to get news and I got it—not the idle tales of paid spies, but a record of sights seen and things heard with my own eyes and ears.
A Voyage on an Ice-Floe.
By Dr. Wilfred T. Grenfell, C.M.G.
Dr. Grenfell may be described as the “Good Angel of Labrador,” having for years devoted himself to ministering to the hardy toilers who live in that grim land of snow, ice, and fog. In this enthralling story he describes how, while on an errand of mercy, he and his dog-team got adrift in the open sea on a tiny cake of ice; how he killed three of the dogs to provide himself with warm clothing; how he made a flagstaff out of their bones; and how he was finally rescued when hope was well-nigh dead.
It was Easter Sunday, but still winter with us, and everything was covered with snow and ice. Immediately after morning service word came from our hospital to say that messengers with a large team of dogs had come from sixty miles to the southward to get a doctor for a very urgent case—that of a young man on whom we had operated about a fortnight before for an acute bone disease in the thigh.
THE AUTHOR, DR. WILFRED T. GRENFELL, C.M.G.
From a Photo. by De Youngs, New York.
There was obviously no time to be lost, so, having packed up the necessary instruments, dressings, and drugs, and fitted out the sleigh with my best dogs, I left at once, the messengers following me with their own team.
Late in April there is always a risk of getting wet through on the ice, so that I was prepared with a spare outfit, which included, besides a change of garments, snow-shoes, rifle, compass, an axe, and oilskin over clothes.
My dogs, being a powerful team, would not be held back, and though I managed to wait twice for the other sleigh I had reached a village about twenty miles on the journey before nightfall, had fed the dogs, and was gathering one or two people for prayers, when they caught me up.
During the night the wind shifted to the north-east. This brought in fog and rain, softened the snow, and made travelling very bad, besides sending a heavy sea into the bay. Our drive next morning would be somewhat over forty miles—the first ten miles across a wide arm of the sea, on salt-water ice.
In order not to be separated too long from my friends, I sent them ahead two hours before me, appointing a rendezvous at a log shanty we had built in the woods for a half-way house. There is no one living along all that lengthy coast-line, and so, in case of accident, we keep dry clothes, food, and drugs at the hut.
The first rain of the year was falling when I left, and I was obliged to keep on what we call the “ballicaters,” or ice barricades, much farther up the bay than I had expected. The sea of the night before had smashed up the ponderous covering of ice right to the land-wash, and great gaping chasms between the enormous blocks, which we call “pans,” made it impossible to get off. As soon as I topped the first hill outside the village I could see that half a mile out it was all clear water.
An island which lies off about three miles in the bay had preserved a bridge of ice, however, and by crossing a few cracks I managed to reach this island. The arm of the bay beyond this point is only about four miles straight across. This would bring me to a rocky promontory and would save some miles on the round. As far as the eye could see the ice seemed good, though it was very rough. Obviously it had been smashed up by the sea, and packed in again by the strong wind from the north-east, but I judged it had frozen solid together again.
I set off to cross this stretch, and all went well till I was about a quarter of a mile from the landing-point. Then the wind suddenly fell, and I noticed I was travelling over loose “sish” ice, almost of the consistency of porridge; by stabbing down, I could drive my whip-handle clean through it. This “sish” ice consists of the tiny fragments made by large pans pounding together on the heaving sea.
So strongly did the breeze now come off-shore, and so quickly did the packed mass, relieved of the wind pressure, begin to scatter, that already I could not see one floe larger than ten feet square. I realized at once that retreat was absolutely impossible; the only thing to be done was to make a dash for it and try to reach the shore.
There was not a moment to lose, so I tore off my oilskins, threw myself out on my hands and knees by the side of the komatik to give a larger base to hold, and shouted to the dogs to go ahead.
Before we had gone twenty yards, the animals, divining their peril, hesitated for a moment, and the komatik instantly sank into the slush. It then became necessary for the dogs to pull, and they promptly began to sink in also. Earlier in the season the father of the very man I was going to operate on had been drowned by his dogs tangling their traces around him in the “slob.” This unpleasant fact now flashed into my mind, and I managed to loosen my sheath-knife, scramble forward, find the traces in the water, and cut them, meanwhile taking a turn with the leader’s trace around my wrist.
There was a pan of ice some twenty-five yards away, about the size of a dining-table, and on to this the leader very shortly climbed. The other dogs, however, were hopelessly bogged in the slushy ice and water.
“ONE OF THE DOGS GOT ON TO MY SHOULDERS, PUSHING ME FARTHER DOWN IN THE ICE.”
Gradually I hauled myself along the leader’s line towards the pan, till he suddenly turned round and slipped out of his harness. It was impossible to make any progress through the “sish” ice by swimming, so I lay there helplessly, thinking it would soon be over, and wondering if anyone would ever know how the tragedy happened. Suddenly I saw the trace of another big dog, who had himself fallen through just before he reached the pan. Along this I hauled myself, using the animal as a bow anchor, but much bothered by the other dogs, one of which, in his struggle for life, got on to my shoulders, pushing me farther down in the ice. Presently, however, I passed my living anchor, and soon, with my dogs around me, I lay on the little piece of ice. I had to help the dogs on to it, though they were able to work their way to me through the lane of water that I had made.
We were safe for the moment, yet it was obvious that we must be drowned before long if we remained on this little fragment, so, taking off my moccasins, coat, gloves, and cap, and everything that I could spare, I tied my knife and moccasins separately on to the backs of the dogs. My only hope of life seemed to be to get ashore at once. Had I been able to divine the long drift before me, I might have saved, in the same way as I saved my knife, a small bag of food. The moccasins, made of tanned sealskin, came right up to my thigh, and, as they were filled with water, I thought they accounted for my being able to make no progress.
Taking the long traces from all the dogs but the two lightest, I gave them the full length of the lines, tied the near ends around my own wrists, and tried to make the animals go ahead. Nothing would induce them to move, however, and though I threw them off the pan two or three times, they always struggled back on to it. Fortunately, I had with me a small black spaniel, a featherweight, with large furry paws, something like snow-shoes, who will retrieve for me. I threw a piece of ice for him, and he managed to get over the “slob” after it, on to another pan about twenty yards away. The other dogs followed him and after much painful struggling all of them got on but one.
Taking all the run I could get on my little pan, I made a rush, slithering with the impetus along the surface till once more I sank through. After a tough fight I was able to haul myself by the long traces on to this new pan. I had taken care this time to tie the harnesses, to which I was holding, under the dogs’ bellies, so that they could not slip them off. But the pan I was now on was still not enough to bear us, and so this exhausting process had to be repeated immediately to avoid sinking with it.
I now realized, much to my dismay, that though we had been working towards the land we had been losing ground all the time, for the off-shore wind had now driven us a hundred yards farther out. The widening gap was full of pounded ice, which rose to the surface as the pressure lessened. Through this no man could possibly make his way.
I was now resting on a floe about ten feet by twenty, which, when I came to examine it, was not ice at all, but simply snow-covered “slob,” frozen into a mass, and which I feared would very soon break up in the general turmoil and the heavy sea, which was continually increasing as the ice drove offshore before the wind.
At first we drifted in the direction of a rocky point on which a heavy surf was breaking, and I made up my mind, if there was clear water in the surf, to try to swim for the land. But suddenly we struck a rock, a large piece broke off the already small pan, and what was left swung around in the backwash and went right off to sea. I saw then that my pan was about a foot thick.
There was nothing now for it but to hope for rescue. Alas! there was no possibility of being seen by human eyes. As I have already mentioned, no one lives round this big bay. It was just possible, however, that the people on the other komatik, knowing I was alone and had failed to keep my tryst, would, perhaps, come back to look for me. This, however, they did not do.
Meanwhile the westerly wind—our coldest wind at this time of the year—was rising rapidly. It was very tantalizing, as I stood there with next to nothing on, the wind going through me, and every stitch soaked in ice-water, to see my komatik some fifty yards away. It was still above water, packed with food, hot tea in a Thermos bottle, dry clothing, matches, wood, and everything for making a fire to attract attention, if I should drive out far enough for someone to see me—and yet it was quite beyond my reach.
It is easy to see a black object on the ice in the day-time, for its gorgeous whiteness shows off the least thing. But, alas! the tops of bushes and large pieces of kelp have so often deceived those looking out that the watcher hesitates a long time before he takes action. Moreover, within our memory no man has ever been thus adrift on the bay ice. The chances were one in a thousand that I would be seen at all, and, even if I were, I should probably be mistaken for a fragment of driftwood or kelp.
To keep from freezing I took my long moccasins, strung out some line, split the legs, and made a kind of jacket, which preserved my back from the wind down as far as the waist.
I had not drifted more than half a mile before I saw my poor komatik disappear through the ice, which was every minute loosening up into small pans. The loss of the sledge seemed like that of a friend, and one more tie with home and safety lost.
By midday I had passed the island and was moving out into the ever-widening bay. It was scarcely safe to stir on the pan for fear of breaking it, and yet I saw I must have the skins of some of my dogs—of which there were eight on the pan—if I was to live the night out. There was now from three to five miles of ice between me and the north side of the bay, so I could plainly see there was no hope of being picked up that day, even if seen, for no boat could get out.
Unwinding the sealskin traces from my waist, around which I had them coiled to keep the dogs from eating them, I made a slip-knot and passed it over the first dog’s head, tied it round my foot close to its neck, threw him on his back, and stabbed him to the heart. Poor beast! I loved him like a friend, but we could not all hope to live. In fact, at that time I had no hope that any of us would, but it seemed better to die fighting.
In the same way I sacrificed two more large dogs, receiving a couple of bites in the process, though I fully expected that the pan would break up in the struggle. A short shrift seemed to me better than a long one, and I envied the dead dogs, whose troubles were over so quickly. Indeed, I began to debate in my mind whether, if once I passed into the open sea, it would not be better by far to use my faithful knife on myself than to die by inches. There seemed no horror whatever in the thought; I seemed fully to sympathize with the Japanese view of hara-kiri. Working, however, saved me from dangerous philosophizing. By the time I had skinned the dogs and strung the skins together with some rope unravelled from the harnesses I was ten miles on my way and it was already getting dark.
Away to the northward I could now see a single light in the little village where I had slept the night before. One could not help picturing them sitting down to tea, little thinking that there was anyone watching them, for I had told them not to expect me back for four days. I could also see the peaceful little school-house on the hill, where many times I had gathered the people for prayer.
THE AUTHOR’S DOG TEAM.
From a Photograph.
I had now frayed out some rope into oakum and mixed it with some fat from the intestines of my dogs, with the idea of making a flare. But I discovered that my match-box, which was always chained to me, had leaked, and my precious matches were in pulp. Had I been able to make a light, it would have looked so unearthly out there on the ice that I felt sure they would have seen me. However, I kept the matches, hoping that I might be able to dry them if I lived through the night. While working at the dead dogs, about every five minutes I would stand up and wave my hands towards the land. I had no flag and I could not spare my shirt, for, wet as it was, it was better than nothing in that freezing wind, and, anyhow, it was nearly dark.
Unfortunately, the coves in among the cliffs are so placed that only for a very narrow space can the people in any house see the sea. Indeed, most of them cannot see the sea at all, so that whether it was possible for anyone to see me I could not tell, even supposing it had been daylight.
Not daring to take any snow from the surface of my pan to break the wind with, I piled up the carcasses of the dogs. Moreover, I could now sit down on the skin rug without finding myself in a pool of water, thawed out by my own heat. During these hours I had continually taken off all my things, wrung them out, swung them in the wind, and put on first one and then the other inside, hoping that what heat there was in my body would thus serve to dry them. In this I had been fairly successful.
My feet were the most trouble, for they immediately got wet again on account of my thin moccasins being easily soaked through on the snow. I suddenly thought of the way in which the Lapps, who tend our reindeer, manage to dry socks. They carry grass with them, which they ravel up and put into the shoe. Into this they put their feet, and then pack the rest with more grass, tying up the top with a binder. The ropes of the harness for our dogs are carefully “served” all over with two layers of flannel, in order to make them soft against the animal’s sides. So, as soon as I could sit down, I started with my trusty knife to rip up the flannel. Though my fingers were more or less frozen, I was able to ravel out the rope, put it into my shoes, and use my wet socks inside my knicker-bockers, where, though damp, they served to break the wind. Then, tying the narrow strips of flannel together, I bound up the tops of the moccasins, Lapp fashion, and carried the bandage on up over my knee, making a ragged though most excellent puttee.
In order to run easily and fast with our dogs in the spring of the year, when the weather is usually warm, we wear very light clothing; thus we do not perspire at midday and freeze at night. It chanced that I had recently opened a box of football garments which I had not seen for twenty years. I had found my old Oxford University running “shorts,” and a pair of Richmond Football Club stockings of red, yellow, and black, exactly as I wore them twenty years ago. These, with a flannel shirt and sweater, were all I now had left. Coat, hat, gloves, oilskins—everything else—were gone, and I stood there in that odd costume exactly as I stood in the old days on a football field. These garments, being very light, dried all the quicker until afternoon; then nothing would dry any more, everything freezing stiff.
My occupation till what seemed like midnight was unravelling rope, and with this I padded out my knickers inside and my shirt as well, though it was a clumsy job, for I could not see what I was doing. Now, getting my largest dog, as big as a wolf and weighing ninety-two pounds, I made him lie down in order that I could cuddle around him. I then piled the three skins so that I could lie on one edge, while the other came just over my shoulders and head.
My own breath, collecting inside the newly-flayed skin, must have had a soporific effect, for I was soon fast asleep. One hand I had plunged down inside the curled-up dog, but the other hand, being gloveless, had frozen, and I suddenly woke, shivering enough, I thought, to break my pan. What I took to be the sun was just rising, but I soon found it was the moon, and then I knew it was about half past twelve. The dog was having an excellent time; he had not been cuddled up so warmly all the winter. He resented my moving with low growls, till he found it wasn’t another dog.
The wind was steadily driving me now towards the open sea, where, short of a miracle, I could expect nothing but death.
Still I had only this hope—that my pan would probably be opposite another village, called Goose Cove, at daylight, and might possibly be seen from there. I knew that the komatiks would be starting at daybreak over the hills for a parade of Orangemen about twenty miles away. I might, therefore, be seen as they climbed the hills, though the cove does not open seaward. So I lay down and went to sleep again.
I woke some time later with a sudden thought in my mind that I must have a flag to signal with. So I set to work at once in the dark to disarticulate the legs of my dead dogs, which were now frozen stiff, and seemed to offer the only chance of forming a pole to carry a flag.
Cold as it was, I determined to sacrifice my shirt for that purpose with the first streak of daylight. It took a long time in the dark to get the legs off, and when I had patiently marled them together with old harness rope they formed the heaviest and crookedest flag-post it has ever been my lot to see. Still it had the advantage of not being so cold to hold, because the skin on the paws made it unnecessary to hold the frozen meat with my bare hands.
What had awakened me this time, I found, was that the pan had swung around and the shelter made by my dogs’ bodies was on the wrong side, for, though there was a very light air, the evaporation it caused from my wet clothes made quite a difference. I had had no food since six o’clock the morning before, when I had porridge and bread and butter. I had, however, a rubber band on instead of one of my garters, and I chewed that for twenty-four hours. It saved me from thirst and hunger, oddly enough. I did not drink from the ice of my pan, for it was salt-water snow and ice. Moreover, in the night the salt water had lapped up over the edges, for the pan was on a level with the sea. From time to time I heard the cracking and grinding of the newly formed “slob,” and it seemed that my little floe must inevitably soon go to pieces.
At last the sun really did rise, and the time came for the sacrifice of my shirt. I stripped, and, much to my surprise and pleasure, did not find it was half so cold as I had anticipated. I now reformed my dog-skins, with the raw side out, so that they made a kind of coat, quite rivalling Joseph’s. But with the rising of the sun the frost came out of the joints of my dogs’ legs, and the friction—caused, I suppose, by waving it—made my flag-pole almost tie itself in knots. Still, I could raise it three or four feet above my head, which seemed very important.
Now, however, I found that, instead of having drifted as far as I had reckoned, I was only off some cliffs called Ireland Head, near which there is a little village looking seaward, whence I should certainly have been seen had the time been summer. But as I had myself, earlier in the season, been night-bound at the place, I had learnt there was not a single soul living there in the winter. The people had all, as usual, migrated to their winter houses up the bay, where they get together for schooling and social purposes.
It was impossible to wave so heavy a flag as mine all the time, and yet I dared not sit down, for that might be the exact moment someone would be in a position to see me from the hills. The only thing in my mind was how long I could stand up, and how long go on waving that pole at the cliffs. Once or twice I thought I saw men against their snowy faces, which I judged were about five or six miles from me. In reality, however, all the time I knew in my heart of hearts that the black specks were only trees. Once, also, I thought I saw a boat approaching. A glittering object kept appearing and disappearing on the water, but it was merely a small piece of ice sparkling in the sun as it rose on the surface.
Physically I felt as well as ever I did in my life, and with the hope of a long sunny day I felt sure I was good to last another twenty-four hours if my ice-raft would only hold out. I determined to kill a big Eskimo dog I had at midday and drink his blood (only a few days before I had been reading an account of the sustaining properties of dogs’ blood in Dr. Nansen’s book) if I survived the battle with him.
I could not help feeling, even then, my ludicrous position, and I thought if I ever got ashore again I would have to laugh at myself standing hour after hour waving my shirt at those lofty cliffs, which seemed to assume a kind of sardonic grin, so that I could almost imagine they were laughing at me. I thought of the good breakfast my colleagues were enjoying just at the back of those same cliffs, and of the snug fire and comfortable room which we call our study.
I can honestly say that from first to last not a single sensation of fear entered my mind, even when struggling in the “slob” ice. It all seemed so natural; I had been through the ice half-a-dozen times before. Now I merely felt sleepy, and the idea was very strong in my mind that I should soon reach the solution of the mysteries that I had been preaching about for so many years.
It was a perfect morning, a cobalt sky and an ultramarine sea, a golden sun, and an almost wasteful extravagance of crimson pouring over hills of purest snow, which caught and reflected its glories from every peak and crag. Between me and their feet lay miles of rough ice, bordered with the black “slob” formed during the night. Lastly, there was my poor little pan in the fore-ground, bobbing up and down on the edge of the open sea, stained with blood, and littered with carcasses and débris. It was smaller than last night; the edges, beating against the new ice around, had heaped themselves up in fragments that, owing to its diminutive size, it could ill spare. I also noticed that the new ice from the water melted under the dogs’ bodies had also been formed at the expense of its thickness. Five dogs and myself in a coloured football costume and a blood-smeared dog-skin cloak, with a grey flannel shirt on a pole of frozen dogs’ legs, completed the picture.
The sun was almost hot by now, and I was conscious of a surplus of heat in my skin cloak. I began to look longingly at one of my remaining dogs, for an appetite will rise even on an ice pan. The idea of eating made me think of fire, so once again I inspected my matches. Alas! the heads had entirely soaked off them all, except three or four blue-top wax matches which were in a paste. These I now laid out to dry, and I searched around on my snow pan to see if I could get a bit of transparent ice with which to make a burning-glass, for I was pretty sure that, with all the unravelled tow stuffed into my nether garments and the fat of the dead dogs, I could make smoke enough to be seen if I could only get a light.
I had found a piece which it seemed might answer the purpose, and had gone back to wave my flag, which I did every two minutes, when suddenly, for the second time, I thought I saw the glitter of an oar. It did not seem possible, however, for it must be remembered that it was not water that lay between me and the land, but “slob” ice, which, a mile or two inshore of me, was very heavy. Even if people had seen me, I did not think they could get through, though I knew all of them would be trying. Moreover, there was no smoke rising on the land to give me hope that I had been seen. There had been no gun flashes in the night, and I felt sure that, had anyone seen me, there would have been a bonfire on every hill to encourage me to keep going. So I gave it up and went on with my work. But the next time I went back to my flag it seemed very distinct, and though it kept disappearing as we rose and fell on the surface, my readers can well imagine I kept my eyes in that direction. Through my dark spectacles having been lost, however, I was already partly snow-blind.
I waved the flag as high as I could raise it in a direction to be broadside towards those places where I thought people might have gone out around the ice after ducks, which is their main occupation a little later in the year. I hoped that they might then see my flag and come straight on for me. At last, beside the glitter of a white oar, I made out the black speck of a hull. I knew then if the pan held out for another hour that I should be all right.
With that strange perversity of the human intellect, the first thing I thought of when I realized that a rescue boat was under way was what trophies I could carry with my luggage from the pan! I pictured the dog-bone flagstaff adorning my study—the dogs intervened, however, and ate it later on—and I thought of preserving my ragged puttees in my museum.
I could see that my rescuers were frantically waving, and when they came within shouting distance I heard someone shout, “Don’t get excited; keep on the pan, where you are.” As a matter of fact, they were infinitely more excited than I. Already it seemed just as natural to me now to be saved as half an hour before it seemed inevitable that I should be lost. Had my rescuers only known, as I did, the sensations of a bath in the ice when you cannot dry yourself afterwards, they need not have expected me to throw myself into the water.
At last the boat came up, crashing into my pan with such violence that I was glad enough to catch hold of the bow, being more or less acquainted by now with the frail constitution of my floe, and being well aware it was not adapted for collisions. Moreover, I felt for the pan, for it had been a good and faithful friend to me.
A hearty handshake all round and a warm cup of tea—thoughtfully packed in a kettle—inside, and we hoisted in my remaining dogs and instantly started back, for even then a change of wind might have penned the boat with ice, which would have cost us dearly. Indeed, the men thought we could not return, and we started for an island, in which direction the way was all open.
“I COULD SEE THAT MY RESCUERS WERE FRANTICALLY WAVING.”
There were not only five Newfoundland fishermen at the oars, but five men with Newfoundland muscles in their backs and arms and five as brave hearts as ever beat in the bodies of human beings. So we presently changed our course and forced our way through to the shore.
To my intense astonishment they told me that the night before four men had been out on a point of land, from which the bay is visible, cutting some dead harp seals out from a store. The ice had been extraordinarily hard, and it had taken them till seven o’clock at night to cut out twenty-four seals. Just at the very moment before they left for home, my pan of ice had drifted out clear of the island called Hare Island, and one of them, with his keen fisherman’s eyes, had seen something unusual. They at once returned to their village, saying there was a man on a pan, but they had been discredited, for the people there thought it could only be the top of some tree.
All the time I had been driving along I knew well that there was one man on the coast who had a good spy-glass, and that he had twelve children, among them some of the hardiest young men on the coast. Many times my thoughts had wandered to him, for his sons are everywhere, hunting seals and everything else. It was his sons, and another man with them, who saw me, and were now with him in the boat. The owner of the spy-glass told me he got up instantly in the middle of tea on hearing the news, and hurried over the cliff to the look-out with his glass. Immediately, dark as it was, he made out that there really was a man out on the ice. Indeed, he saw me wave my hands every now and again towards the shore. By a process of reasoning very easy on so unfrequented a shore, they immediately knew who it was, but tried to argue themselves out of their conviction. They went down at once to try and launch a boat, but found it absolutely impossible. Miles of ice lay between them and me, the heavy sea was hurling great blocks on the land-wash, and night was already falling, with the wind blowing hard on shore. These brave fellows, however, did not sit down idly. The whole village was aroused, messengers dispatched at once along the coast, and look-outs told off to all the favourable points, so that while I considered myself a laughing-stock, waving my flag at those irresponsive cliffs, there were really men’s eyes watching from them all the time.
Every soul in the village was on the beach as we neared the shore, and everybody wanted to shake hands when I landed. Even with the grip that one after another gave me, some no longer trying to keep back the tears, I did not find out that my hands were frost-bitten—a fact I have not been slow to appreciate since. A weird sight I must have looked as I stepped ashore—tied up in rags stuffed out with oakum, wrapped in the blood-stained skins of dogs, with no hat, coat, or gloves, and only a short pair of knickers on! It must have seemed to some of them as if the Old Man of the Sea had landed.
No time was wasted before a pot of tea was exactly where I wanted it to be, and some hot stew was locating itself where I had intended an hour before that the blood of one of my remaining dogs should have gone.
Rigged out in the warm garments that fishermen wear, I started with a large team as hard as I could race for hospital, for I had learnt that the news had gone over that I was lost. It was soon painfully impressed upon me that I could not much enjoy the ride; I had to be hauled like a log up the hills, my feet being frost-bitten so that I could not walk. Had I guessed this before I might have avoided much trouble.
We all love life, and I was glad to be back once more with a new lease of it before me. My colleague soon had me “fixed up,” and I was presently enjoying a really refreshing sleep.
THE AUTHOR AS HE APPEARED AFTER HIS TERRIBLE EXPERIENCE ON THE ICE FLOE, SHOWING THE FLAG-STAFF MADE OF DOGS’ BONES.
From a Photograph.
(Copyright, 1908, by Fleming H. Revell Company.)