A Camp on the River Bank. ([p. 40])
Roofing at Keffi. ([p. 51])
However, this particular Christmas Day was four years ago, and Ganna was then a stronger man, and a keen shikari, and had arranged this shoot. I looked at him with special interest, as he crouched, smiling, at one end of the canoe, clad in a dazzling white Hausa gown, heavily embroidered in green—there seemed to be more of him than usual, and the hope crossed my mind that he was perhaps gaining flesh. But, when we had poled down the creek where the water-lilies are clustered thick, past the Niger Company’s warehouses, and out on to the great grey river, nearly half a mile wide, and shrouded in pale Harmattan mists, and were sweeping rapidly down stream in the direction of the duck grounds, Ganna dissipated my hopes by cautiously divesting himself of his white garb, and emerging, clad in a faultless Norfolk suit of light tweed—a present from his beloved master, as he explained proudly.
The water was like oil, greyness was everywhere as soon as the sun began to drop into the haze, and a great silence prevailed—the loudest sound being the crackling of numberless bush fires along the banks, for at this season of the year the dry grass is fired, and in all directions there are leaping tongues of flame and columns of smoke.
Presently, the ‘Quack! Quack!’ of contented ducks could be heard, and we crept off our chairs and crouched in the bottom of our canoe, the polers squatting motionless at either end, their wet poles slowly dripping into the greasy-looking water, while the canoe drifted down to the sand-bank where the ducks were—in their hundreds, some standing in the water, preening their feathers, others solemnly waddling about on the bank—all discoursing ceaselessly in their gossippy, monotonous language. The whole bank was dark with them, tall, graceful ‘crown-birds’ standing motionless or stalking thoughtfully about on the sand, plump, sturdy mallards, and restless little teal, all busy, chatty, supremely happy, and utterly unconscious of the danger creeping on them, in the drifting canoe.
We were so absorbed in watching the scene that we forgot the object of our expedition, and, indeed, it seemed nothing short of criminal to disturb a party so contented and peaceful, but the thousands of restless little bright eyes spied the glint of a gun barrel, the alarm was given, there was a rushing whirr, and the sky over our heads was instantly dark with beating wings. A couple of shots brought down some victims, and the canoe wended its way to another duck-ground, after landing me on a sand-bank, for the purpose of sketching a picturesque little hamlet built there by the fisher-folk during the season of low water, when they spend their time catching and drying fish; later, when the water rises, and, each year, sweeps away the whole colony of frail grass huts, they return to Egga, and dispose of their season’s catch.
When the canoe, laden with further spoils, picked me up again, the sun was just setting in the banks of mist, a gorgeous colour display of sunset had turned the whole world rose-colour, giving to the water a strange pale violet hue, and we had a good six miles to pole against a swift current, so the nose of the canoe was turned up stream, and we crept along close under the banks, where the stream is least strong, and the edge gives some purchase for the poles.
Our progress seemed incredibly slow, but I could have sat there for ever, slipping through the still evening, the silence only broken, away behind us, by the faint quacking of disturbed and outraged ducks, returning cautiously to the feeding-grounds; one felt at peace with all the world, and I could not even bother to give an anxious thought to the complete uncertainty of our dinner!