We pushed on early the next day to Fafa, arriving there about seven o’clock in the morning. Here the stream is divided into two arms by an island on which a village is hidden, with an approach presenting anything but a reassuring appearance. But we had other things to see to before exploring it.
Directly we anchored a Tuareg came to accost us. He turned out to be an envoy from Djamarata, the nephew of Madidu, who he said was at the village, specially accredited by that chief to complete the negotiations begun with us at Gao, and to give me the letter I had asked for.
The village of Fafa is occupied by Peuls or Fulahs, who, like all the rest of the sedentary races whom we met with who are face to face with the Tuaregs, were in a state of abject fear, wondering what would happen between the white visitors and the dreaded Arabs, both of superior race in the eyes of the negroes. Would they quarrel with each other? Would they come to blows? Not wishing to play the part of the iron between hammer and anvil, they were full of anxiety and trouble.
The old fellow who had come out as envoy climbed on to the Davoust. He did not wish me to land, Djamarata must come on board. As for him, he meant to stop where he was. Fortunately my Songhay from Idris were not quite such cowards, and they tried to reassure the poor old man, but when he still seemed terrified they gave him a good scolding. Djamarata was seated, meanwhile, some hundred yards from the river bank, surrounded by about a dozen Tuaregs. The brother of Idris finally took me by the arm, and we went together towards him. We saluted each other, we shook hands, neither of us looking in the least inclined to eat the other. But this peaceable greeting did not reassure the silly old messenger, who, with a feeling which really did him honour, came and crouched almost between my legs to protect me.
Djamarata was a young man of about thirty years old, at least that was what I supposed from all I could see of his face, which was almost hidden by the tagelmust wrapped about the lower part. He was tall and of a commanding presence, whilst his great black eyes were lit up with intelligence. All Madidu’s boys being still under age, he was his uncle’s right hand, alike the confidant and the commander-in-chief of the Amenokal’s army.
PALAVER WITH DJAMARATA.
Our interview was very brief. I simply repeated what I had said at Gao, and Djamarata informed me that my statement tallied with what he had heard from the chief of the Awellimiden.
Now about the letter I had asked for. As he had not a marabout in his suite who knew how to write Arabic, he proved his confidence in Tierno by letting him indite it without hesitation, and the latter set about it at once. Here is a literal translation of his production:
Letter from Madidu and his nephew Djamarata to the Sultan of the French.