Twelve o’clock.—To south, six miles, and only too with the mainsail. A fire extends before us, probably lighted reed-grass. This stands close to us, being a height of twenty to thirty feet, and in brown silky ears, whilst the grass and broad reeds are not so far advanced. Unfortunately the river winds again E.S.E., and at one o’clock libàhn to E. Sloughs and deep recesses of water are close to the river, and run parallel with it.
Half-past one o’clock.—Fadl tells me from the mast, that the large island before mentioned, turns out to be a peninsula. The other arm of the stream approaches again our river, with the right shore, but its water is lost against the ascending surface of its river bed; however, it may at high water, have flowed over this, although it is not shewn by any remarkable hollow. This arm is also choked up above, though it has preserved the lower part of its bed. If we only think of this large horizontal water-line, from the foot of the island up to the damming up in our neighbourhood, we see plainly how melancholy it must look at the fall of the White Stream. The right side of the river is close to us, and the wood on the left, perhaps containing here the old tract of the shore, is, as Fadl tells me, nearly three hours’ journey off. He calculates distances correctly, though always at something less than myself, for he has longer legs, and is of the active race, who run in their journeys to water and bread with as much goût, as we to the outstretched arms of an inn.
Where the river winds to S.E. a group of small ambak and grass islands enter into the landscape; thousands of birds enliven a lake, the two tributaries of which draw in to the east, and from the east to south. I hear, however, from the mast, that they are neither tributaries nor arms of the Nile, and soon come to an end. A trace of a more extensive gohr or rain-river discharging itself here, and now, perhaps, dried up, to which supposition we are led, at the first glance, cannot be followed by the eye. These are, perhaps, indeed, old arms of the Nile, now choked up and grown over; the sluggish stream may not be able to cover them again, but overflows them at high-water. Creepers and flowers fantastically entwined hang around on the margin of the reeds, behind which the high ambak-trees stand, also in flower.
Two o’clock.—S.E. wind, good and strong; but it forced us to use the towing rope till half-past two o’clock, when we sail from S. to S.S.W. Constant north winds, such as are blowing at this moment in Khartùm, do not occur here at this time; however, this everlasting change of wind is, at times, advantageous to us, from the extremely varying course of the river. The wind falls—the drum beats for libàhn, when the wind from N.E. allows us again to stretch sail, in order to go to the south. This is, however, but a short pleasure, and the rope is obliged to be had recourse to, when we go, about half-past three, east by south; where, right and left, is a village in the reeds.
Four o’clock.—From E. to W., S.E., S.S.E., and from S. to S.E., all in an hour, in nearly equal sections of time. At five o’clock, a city on the left shore, but the smoke extending near it, does not proceed from herds, but from the kindled reeds. At six o’clock, near sunset, on the left shore lagoons and birds; five men are standing close to them, but do not approach nearer. Towards the south of the village we remark a lake, which receives its water from the river, and is a broad, old river-bed, stretching from W. to E. The lower end is choked up with slime and rises only a little above the present level of the water. We halt, and the eastern horizon is illumined with the visible flames of the reeds.
28th December.—The bustle of departure awoke me before day-break. No mist is to be seen, and even the ram’s skin of the Turkish Gideon, Hüsseïn Aga, stretched out before the cabin, is but slightly wet. He had remained with us the night, in order to help Feïzulla Capitan (who even seeks to stimulate his thirst by eating anchovies in rancid oil) to drink his wretched dram made from dates. Gnats do not appear from without; the old guests from the reeds were soon killed. With a gentle N.E. wind we steer towards S.S.W. Even before sun-rise we see on the left a village of thirty-six tokuls, on the slope of a hill. This has been formed, perhaps, by the hand of man from the first dam thrown up. Judging from the houses still falling to ruin, the clay walls of which remain, it may have ascended to a height of twelve to fifteen feet. The river has full play here in the free level field, yet its power of rooting up, through the falls, is so little, that it is not able, with the want of sand, to pile up Downs. The roofs of the tokuls run, indeed, to a point, but their superficies is cut away into ring-formed layers, so as to form steps. The roofs are elevated to an unusual height. The oval doors look, as usual, towards different directions, for they serve also as windows. One looks straight to the river, another up the river, and the third wants to see what is taking place down below. I have not seen any doors looking towards the country. The high water seems here to have done mischief to the lower huts, as we see by the make-shift ones which have been erected in all haste. Inland, on the left shore, a village shews itself for a moment, through an aperture in the high reeds.
I looked upon the rising sun with the blissful heart and kindly humour that Nature, in her majesty, calls forth with irresistible power. Dark brown clouds covered the place where he was to disclose himself in all his glory. The all-powerful light of the world inflames this layer of clouds; ruffled, like the billows of the ocean, they become lighted up with an indescribable hue of blue Tyrian purple, from which an internal living fire beams forth on every side. To S.E. by E. a vessel dips its mast and sails into this flood of gold. Filmy rays and flames of gold display themselves in the centre of that deep blue curtain, the borders of which only are kindled with luminous edging, whilst the core of the sun itself, within the most confined limits, sparkles through the darkest part like a star never to be looked upon. At last he rises, conquering all the atmospheric obstacles of the vaporous earth; the latter stand like clear flakes of gold, attending him on the right, whilst two strata of clouds, embedded in each other, draw a long beautiful train to the north, ever spreading and dissolving more and more. I write—I try once more to embrace the mightiest picture of ethereal life, but the ship has, in the mean time, turned, and the sails cover the sun, so as not to weaken the first impression. There are moments, truly, when one is, as it were, a god; but this god-like feeling lasts, in its entire strength, only as long as the external impression, which the inmost persuasion rather weakens than strengthens. Cheerfully, and with a fresh heart, I settled myself there in a vernùs, on my little bamber, before the cabin, to a soothing sleep, where dreamy pictures of my home delighted me. I drank my coffee even before sun-rise, (18° Reaumur,) and filled my pipe a second time, for tobacco also has a great deal to do with beginning the day in good humour.
With a faint north wind we advance for some minutes N.E. by S. A light mist, thrown over the horizon, rises high to the heavens, and melts away. Neither land or tree is to be seen, for the village is an island in the verdant sea, extending boldly in all shades of green, and to an immeasurable distance. About seven o’clock N.E. by E., and in a bend to W. Wild geese fly here and there, but they scream, and are therefore not roasted. Even I feel inclined for meat.
At 8 o’clock, three villages appear in the south. From N.N.W. we turn a sharp angle to the south. The creepers form, from the shores already deserted by the water, a beautiful rim of flowers down and into the stream. We row and sail slowly round the before-named corner, not to S., but to S.S.E., as the wind somewhat freshens; immediately, however, S.W. by W. and a short tract S.E.; but, about nine o’clock, to N. with Libàhn. The north-east wind has set in with such strength, that we can drift along without sails for half an hour in a south-westerly direction. At ten o’clock, to N.E. Libàhn; and at half-past, to S. in a bend—God knows where—to W., and again without sails. We make five miles, when the fore-sail is let out in a slackened bow. To the right—still in the bend mentioned just now to N.W., and in this direction we have a pretty long tract before us.
Happy are those who have time, or take time, to sleep, when they feel inclined: I really must praise myself for holding out, from early in the morning to late in the evening, sometimes aloft, sometimes below, with such a continual scribbling of “on the right,” “on the left,” and describing all kinds of winds and weather—which is perfectly necessary, but may be as tedious to my future readers as it is to myself. From N.W., with some trouble, Libàhn to E. At twelve o’clock we sail gradually to S.E. and S., and make five miles, although the river has one mile rapidity; but at half-past twelve E. by S. and S.E., and at one o’clock again E. by S.; at half-past one S.S.W.; a quarter of an hour later S.E. by S.