The other was a Toucouleur named Suleyman, who spoke Wolof, and had followed Amadu Cheiku in his exodus from Nioro to Dunga. He was a poor deaf old man, but had a very intelligent face. He told us that the whole recompense Amadu had given him for his long and faithful service was to take away his gun, his only wealth, to give it to one of his sofas or captives taken in war. This last misfortune had disgusted Suleyman with the Holy War, in which he said more blows than pay were received, and he wanted to go back with us to his own land of Footah on the Senegal, the reigning chief of which was a relation of his.
He did not know what we had come here for. He did not know what route we meant to take on our way back, and surely nothing could have been a greater mark of confidence in us than this readiness of one of our worst enemies to trust himself to us.
At first I rather distrusted the man, who might be a spy, or worse, a traitor sent to try and seduce my men from their duty. However, whilst resolving to watch him closely, I decided to take him with us, but I gave him a good talking to to begin with, saying—“I don’t know whether you are a liar or an honest fellow, but most of your relations are deceivers and humbugs, and it is no recommendation in my eyes that you belong to the Toucouleur race. However, I will not be unjust, for I may be mistaken about you. So you can come with us, and you will be treated as if you were one of my own men. If we have plenty you shall have your share, and if we run short of food you will have to tighten your waistband like the rest of us. But deceive us once, only once, and your head will not remain on your shoulders for a moment. You are warned, please yourself about going or stopping.”
I must add here that Suleyman, the Toucouleur, or, as he was at once called amongst us, Suleyman Foutanké, was always true to us. I took him with me to Saint Louis, and he is now enjoying in his natal village a repose which must indeed be grateful to him after his thirty years’ wanderings.
We started again at two o’clock in the afternoon, and in the evening we halted for the night not far from Sorbo, where we were to see the chief of the Kurteyes.
We went to see him the next day, and passed the morning at Sorba. We were very well received by Yusuf Osman. Don’t tell him that I have revealed his name to the public, for amongst the Kurteyes it is very bad form to call any one by his name. I have noticed that there is a similar superstition in the Bambara districts of the Upper Niger.
Yusuf is a big, good-looking fellow of about forty years of age, who has recently succeeded his father as chief. When we arrived he was suffering from some affection of the eyes. Taburet prescribed for and cured him, thus contributing to establishing us in his good graces.
The former chief of Sorba had been a great friend of Amadu, and had given him canoes for crossing the river. If therefore the Toucouleurs had succeeded in establishing their authority in the districts torn from the Djermas of Karma and Dunga, it was in some measure due to him.
Yusuf, however, did not disguise that he was becoming rather uneasy about the future, and as far as was possible without compromising himself he had tried to be useful to us. If ever we succeed, as I hope we shall, in driving Amadu from the neighbourhood of Say, we shall certainly find auxiliaries in the Kurteyes.
Yusuf gave us as a guide to take us to Say, a man named Hugo, chief of his own slaves, a capital fellow, and an excellent pilot. Needless to add that we all at once dubbed him Victor in honour of the great French author.