French enterprise in Africa

by Hourst

The next day, the 17th, the river still wound in much the same way as on the 16th; in fact, so serpentine was its course, that one of the coolies cried out he did not believe we were on the Niger still, but that we had lost our way. Numerous islands and dense vegetation, with very picturesque views here and there, were the order of the day. Great blocks of red sandstone rose in some places to a height of from about thirty to more than three hundred feet, and at every bend of the stream some new or strange view met our eyes.

We longed to land and seek repose beneath the thick dome of vegetation forming natural arbours, but there was one great drawback about them, the immense number of insects eager to suck our blood. At night the mosquitoes invaded us in vast hordes, and our poor coolies used to roll themselves up in everything they could lay hands on, at the risk of suffocation. As for us, we too suffered terribly, for though when we were asleep our mosquito nets did to some extent protect us, when we were on watch on deck we were nearly bled to death. In the day these pests left us pretty well unmolested, but their place was taken by other persecutors, rather like gadflies, which were able to pierce through our white clothes with a sting as sharp and nearly as long as a needle. I had suffered terribly once before from these horrible diptera when I was on the Tankisso; in fact they haunt the tropical vegetation of many an African river.

Since we started we had been each day threatened with a tornado, but the storm had not broken after all. On the 18th, however, we came in for the tail of one of these meteorological disturbances, and a pretty strong breeze lasted until eleven o’clock so that we were not able to start before that time.

The appearance of the country now began to change. Yesterday I had been reminded by the rocky islets and the wooded banks, of the Niger near Bamako; to-day the stream flows sluggishly through a low plain covered with woods such as those of Massina between Mopti and Debo. A few rocks still occurred to keep up the character of the scenery, so to speak, and about three o’clock in the afternoon we were opposite the site of the village of Gumba, destroyed the year before by the Toucouleurs. We saw a canoe in which were some fishermen, so we hailed them and they approached us without fear. They were inhabitants of Kompa, they said, come here to fish, and were the first human beings we had seen since we left Say. We had passed not only Kibtachi but Bikini without meeting any one. The result of the constant terrorism caused by slave raids, is that all the villagers remain quietly at home cultivating a few acres only, and living in perpetual fear of being carried away from their huts. They altogether neglect the natural riches of the soil formed by the frequent inundations, which leave new layers of vegetable mould. The baobabs and other wild trees alone profit by it, increasing and multiplying continually.

ROCKY BANKS ABOVE KOMPA.

We soon became capital friends with the people of Kompa. They had heard of our stay at Say, and had impatiently awaited our arrival. Neither were they ignorant of the fact that we had driven the Foutankés from the western Sudan, and they hoped we meant to do the same in Dendi. “Look,” one of the fishermen said to me. “A year ago the whole of this district was dotted with villages, now there is not one left but Kompa, for the Foutanis have destroyed everything.”

The canoe now went to Kompa to announce our arrival, but one of the rowers remained with us to act as our guide. He answered to the name, a tragic one to us, of Labezenga. As we went along he gave me some interesting details about the brother of Serki Kebbi, who was now in Dendi, and had been at Kompa itself for the last few days. He had had a quarrel with his brother, and came to take up his abode on the banks of the Niger, but in spite of the strained relations between them, the two were not exactly at war, and in case of an emergency would act together against the common enemy.

At half-past five we came in sight of a few Fulah huts, which belonged to the abandoned village of Bubodji. The inhabitants had made common cause with Amadu and the people of Say, and gone to join them. The wood of these huts would do nicely to cook our dinner by, so I gave the order for mooring. We steered for the mouth of a little creek, where we could easily land. All of a sudden, however, there was a shout of “Digui! what is that?—we are among the rocks!” In fact, all around us the water was ruffled with those peculiar ripples which I used to call moustaches, and which we knew all too well. A strong current was sweeping along, and we expected every moment that our boats would strike and be staved in. How was it that it did not happen? Digui’s features became of the ashy hue peculiar to negroes when they lose their natural colour; he, too, was evidently alarmed, but all of a sudden he burst out laughing. “Fish! Commandant,” he cried, “fish! nothing but fish!” He was right, the ripples were caused by big fishes, a kind of pike, native to the Niger, swimming against the current after their prey. There were simply hundreds of them.