Photo by: Rev. C. J. Dodds
The Author Doctoring a Crocodile-bitten Hand
The native was working at a log in the river running by his village when a crocodile came up by the side of the log and caught his hand.

One morning a woman left Monsembe in a small canoe to fish on the shallow bank of a neighbouring island. As she had not returned by sunset about twenty men came to borrow our large canoe that they might go in search of her. About 9 p.m. they returned, and by their shouts in the distance we learned that they had found the missing woman. On landing her we discovered that she was severely wounded with crocodile bites—the worst case I had ever seen. We set to work to clean the wounds, and sewing up some we bandaged her and left her as comfortable as we could for the night. We afterwards heard the story of her adventures.

It appears that while fishing she saw a crocodile coming for her, so she ran for a tree, and as she climbed the brute raised itself and snapped at her, tearing her fingers, her thighs, and legs, but not getting a sufficient grip of her to pull her down. There she sat, wounded, bleeding, and faint with hunger and loss of blood, through the long day, with the crocodile lying in wait at the foot of the tree. Occasionally she cried out, but there was no one near enough to hear her shouts. She at last heard the paddles of the canoe and the calls of the men, and, responding to them, she guided them to the tree where she was sitting. As the men neared the tree they heard the splashing of the water as the brute made off in the darkness. She fully recovered, and after a time seemed none the worse for her painful experience.

At Boma I saw the skin of a crocodile that measured 25 feet long. The trader who killed it showed me twenty-two brass armlets and anklets, weighing 11½ lbs., that had been taken from its stomach, a proof that in the course of its life it had killed and eaten several people. But there are times when the laugh is on the other side. A colleague of mine fired from a steamer at a crocodile that apparently was asleep on the sandy bank of the river. The bullet struck the head, and as the beast did not move everybody thought it was killed. Some of the steamer’s crew jumped into the water, swam ashore, and just as they caught hold of the tail to turn the creature over preparatory to cutting it up, the crocodile regained consciousness (for it had only been stunned by the bullet grazing the top of the head) and started for the river. Such a tug-of-war was never witnessed before—there was the crocodile struggling to gain the water and some men hauling it back by the tail, while others, quickly procuring some chunks of wood, were beating the reptile’s back to break it. The men won the contest, and that night feasted on their enemy the crocodile.

At all our stations we have good dispensaries, and at some, well-equipped hospitals; and we do our best to alleviate suffering and save life. As non-medical missionaries we can always comfort ourselves with the thought that what we do medically for the natives is far better than they can do for themselves, or have done for them by their medicine men. We are glad, however, to say that we have now three fully qualified doctors in our Mission, whose up-to-date scientific knowledge, joined to their kindly sympathy with the natives, is doing much to relieve pain and save life. Our only regret is that we have not a doctor on every station.[[43]]

[43]. See Appendix, Note 6, page 346, for statistics of white people’s health.

APPENDIX

Note 1.—On Yeasts or Ferments

Bread-making