We wished one another good-night and, after what seemed only a few hours in bed, I was awakened by a nudge from Oakley.
"We're late," he said, "You'll have to bustle."
I sprang out of bed, dressed, and accompanied him to the aerodrome, where in less than another ten minutes we were sitting in the machine ready for our first flight into the Great Unknown.
Watkins, a greasy but competent little man belonging to the new profession of air mechanics, swung the propeller, and the natives held on to the 'planes and tail until the engine was running full out. Then the human anchor was weighed by the natives simply letting go, and the machine began to move slowly forward over the uneven ground.
I had had an idea that we should rise almost immediately, but instead of this the machine seemed to scuttle through the grass as if its wings were too stiff for flight, and it was not until we had nearly reached the end of the aerodrome that the wheels at last left the earth. Even then we were apparently in difficulties, for less than fifty yards away the tops of the cocoanut palms rose above our heads in a threatening barrier of dark green. Could we clear them, I wondered, my heart thumping with excitement?
Suddenly, the machine shot upwards, leapt over the tree tops, dived again on the other side—into what was fortunately a glade-like clearing in the wood—and then, with a shudder, settled into a steady climb.
As the solid old world sank slowly away from us, I gave a deep sigh of relief and turned my thoughts to the splendid panorama which had now sprung into view. In less than another minute we saw the land beneath us as it actually was—an island, bounded on every side by the silver gray of the sea—while before us lay the great, dull green expanse of the African Continent, fringed at its farthest extremity by the pink to crimson glow of the dawn.
The keen morning air was exhilarating, and the grass and foliage sparkled with diamonds of dew. Never have I seen anything to equal the magnificence of the scenery on this trial flight of ours in Africa. As we passed swiftly over the white shell-strewn beach, backed by its palm groves and native huts and plantations of corn, I experienced a real sense of mastery over Nature. The world on which we little humans so painfully crawl and die became something impersonal—but, at the same time, something surprisingly beautiful. And the sea, as placid as a sheltered, inland pool, had turned into a huge mirror, where a couple of native craft, which were making for the mainland, seemed, to be suspended in the air—so clear was the water, and so still.
Behind us, Corisco, only twelve miles in circumference, was visible as a little self-contained world of hills and valleys, forests and prairies, cliffs and sandy beaches, and even a tiny glass-like lake. Dotted along the shore were the villages, with the smoke from them curling above the tree tops like trailing blue-gray veils.
To the right and left, lay the shores of the beautiful Bay of Corisco, converging gradually into the thin, silver threads of the River Moondah, which wound its way backwards into the haze of distant verdure.