We left Lokoja one hot day at the end of January, occupying a steel canoe which was towed alongside by the steam canoe Black Swan. This latter was—well, ‘occupied’ is not the word—overflowed by a party of officers and N.C.O.s; Captain Macarthy Morrogh and Mr. Steward being on their way to join the Anglo-German Boundary Commission, Major Mackenzie and Mr. Carré from Southern Nigeria, bound for Loko and Nassarawa to recruit carriers. The two former had, of necessity, a great quantity of stores and baggage, and the discomfort of that crowded canoe must have been extreme, intensified as it was by the heat from their steam pipes: I should imagine that on parting with four of us at Loko, the sentiments of the remainder must have been unmixed relief!
The Benue River struck me as being remarkably clearer and purer in colour than the Niger, and the scenery is very lovely. Each evening we ‘tied up’ by a convenient sand-bank, and the men camped there, rejoiced, I fancy, to spread themselves out a bit. One evening the Black Swan contingent gave a dinner-party, the novel feature of which was that our menu was to consist of a ‘French dinner’—a most luxurious invention for travellers, one large box containing five tins, each representing a course, with fascinating French names. These only need to be heated in boiling water—and, behold—your French dinner! As we were a party of six, two ‘dinners’ were requisitioned, and we fared royally on delicious soup for a start. After that, I fear the various cooks and boys got hopelessly astray among the courses, for I found myself eating filleted sole, with apple charlotte by way of a sauce! We gave up all attempt at sequence after that, and simply ate our way through a list of most excellent dainties, discovering many new and delectable combinations, and voted the ‘dinners’ an unqualified success!
At Loko the party broke up; we found ponies waiting for us, and hastened off as soon as possible, for it is a most unpleasant mosquito-ridden spot. The road to Keffi is monotonous and wearisome, consisting of the path cleared for the construction of the telegraph line, and it is the dullest process following that interminable wire, winding in between the stumps of decapitated trees. The only halt of any interest on the way was at Nassarawa, a town which had evidently ‘seen better days,’ finely situated on rising ground above a broad river. Keffi has always had a sinister reputation—firstly as a famous slave market, and later on as the scene of Captain Moloney’s tragic death. The Keffi people are queer restless folks, finding their greatest pleasure, apparently, in munafiki or intrigue of all kinds. Our native friends in Lokoja shook their heads dismally, and deplored our being obliged to go among these ‘bad, hard-hearted people,’ I remember, and were evidently prepared for all kinds of unpleasant developments!
As we rode in through the South Gate, and up the long sandy road through the town, it seemed indeed a desolate spot after the teeming streets of Lokoja; nearly all the houses were unroofed (a precaution against fire in the dry season), many were ruinous, and scarcely a soul was to be seen. But, glancing into the narrow low doorways, one was conscious of lurking forms and inquisitive peeping eyes; there were subdued scufflings as, seeing themselves observed, the peepers scuttled off into devious back alleys, like frightened rabbits. The town had been practically deserted since the trouble of the previous autumn, when Captain Moloney’s death took place, and the outlook was indeed a depressing one.
The Resident was occupying the great, mud-built pile, originally the house of the Magaji, forming one side of an open square, just opposite it was the Mosque, and on the left the Sariki’s ‘palace.’
The Residency was, to say the least of it, a gloomy spot for a dwelling-house—a very large compound, surrounded by a thirty foot wall, affording, at best, a view of the sky alone, the inside occupied by a labyrinth of houses, some mere circular huts, dark and low, others well-built, flat-roofed cool houses. Many of the smaller huts had been pulled down, giving more light and air and improving matters greatly. It was very quiet, very prison-like, scarcely a sound penetrated from outside, save the cry of the Muezzins from the Mosque opposite, and only terrific smells from the indigo dye-pits reminded one that there was life and industry beyond the wall.
Dr. Cargill left for Kano almost immediately, and we settled down to await the arrival of our relief, Mr. Granville. A detachment of the N.N.R. had ‘barracks’ near the South Gate, and Mr. Wilcox, in command, was our daily companion when we went out shooting in the evenings, the country round Keffi producing plenty of birds, or when we explored the higher ground behind the town, searching for a suitable site for a new Residency.
On the summit of a high hill, overlooking the town, was a circular wall, enclosing a solitary grave, the resting-place of Captain Moloney, and, in the square, outside the Mosque, stood a tall white wooden cross, marking the spot where he died. All honour to those who placed it there—but that cross has always been a sorrow to me: close beside the wall of the Mosque, it could not fail to be an offence to a Mahomedan community, and, being on the way to the market, each man, woman and child who passed, must be reminded daily of the tragedy that had ruined the prosperity of the town, and wrecked so many innocent, humble homes.
During the short time we were at Keffi, we spared no pains in endeavouring to ‘re-establish confidence’ walking about the town in every direction, and striving to make friends with the people. They were, even then, beginning timidly to return and to come to the market, and, before we left, we had the satisfaction of seeing hundreds of nice new thatched roofs appearing, and the householders coming to their doors to call greetings and salutations, instead of making panic-stricken rushes in the opposite direction!
