Among the people yesterday I found forty-nine young fellows without arms. As they drew up in line they preferred a request to be armed with rifles. Not knowing their character, I sent to the Pasha to be good enough to give me a list of the most deserving, that they might assist in the defence of the column while on the march, but he begged to be excused, as he did not feel well enough. Poor Casati is not on speaking terms with the Pasha, because of his judgment against him in the matter of the little black girl of the other day, and I suppose the Pasha will not be on speaking terms with me, because of the shock of yesterday.
The march will do them all good. When the Pasha is in presence of Ruwenzori—the Mountains of the Moon—he will recover tone.
April 7th.—The Egyptians are now earnestly preparing for the march. I have ordered every family to have a reserve of at least six days’ provisions on hand at all times, irrespective of the plenty that may be in the vicinity. The Zanzibaris have become at last impressed with the necessity of this, though it required eighteen months most woeful experience and constant instruction to teach them this secret of African travel.
April 8th.—Mazamboni’s natives, who have been gathering here ready for our departure, danced nearly the whole day. The women of the Bavira turned out en masse to exhibit a farewell performance. My vanity induces me to publish the fact that the songs were merely extemporaneous effusions in our honour for having as they say “fixed the country in order.”
This afternoon Omar, sergeant of our Soudanese, created a scene because of some supposed insult to his wife by the Zanzibaris. As the affair waxed serious, the intending combatants were brought to the square and requested, if they would not disperse, to fight the matter out before me as umpire. Now Omar is a splendid specimen of manhood, an excellent soldier and officer, but both he and the cantankerous Zanzibaris were elated above reason by native beer. Omar and his Zanzibari antagonists loudly clamoured for a fight. “With fists or clubs?” “Clubs for men,” shouted the Zanzibaris—a very unfortunate choice for them, as it turned out.
Omar stood like a colossus, with his coat sleeve rolled up. A Zanzibari sprang to the front calling out, “I am Asmani, of Muscati; behold how I will lay low this Nubian!” They made two passes, and Asmani was struck to the ground senseless. He was taken up and placed in charge of Dr. Parke.
1889.
April 8.
Kavalli’s.
“Next of ye who feel aggrieved by Omar.” Hajji, a tall Zanzibari, responded, flourished his club, struck deftly one side, but the blow was cleverly caught by Omar, and before he could recover his guard Hajji had measured his length on the greensward. The applause was terrific. There were some 900 people present. Hajji was dragged away like the gored horse in the Plaza de Toros, and sent to the Doctor to be cured of his skull-crack.
“Next;” and at the call bounded a sturdy, active little fellow named Ulaiya—or England. “Ho, my lads, I am England—this Turki soldier shall die!” In his brave confidence he flung his turban away, and exposed his bare head. One, two, three! and, alas, for Ulaiya, the baton of Omar came down on his unprotected cranium with a blow which would have killed a white man, but only caused him to collapse and become too confused for further effort. The sight of the blood streaming down his face infuriated his comrades, and a general rush was made upon Omar, who, before he was rescued, received an extremely sore back from the multitude of blows showered on him, so that victor and vanquished had received adequate punishment, and declared themselves perfectly satisfied that each of their honours had been gratified by the display. After their wounds, they were, however, taken to the guardhouse.
1889.
April 9.
Kavalli’s.