Authoress and Dead "Hippo"
This young bull hippopotamus was shot in the Oti river in the far north of Togoland. Lying in the water in the background of the picture is another. These two hippos were the only ones shot by the expedition, although many others were seen and photographed.
Very late that afternoon, while we were resting at our base camp at Sumbu, Hodgson came back and reported that he had shot the two big hippos, leaving the three smaller ones. In acting thus, he explained, he had not wilfully disobeyed Schomburgk's instructions, which were, it will be remembered, to shoot only one, sparing the other four. He had fallen into an error which, Schomburgk remarked, was quite excusable on the part of a young hunter unaccustomed to the ways of these animals. He had shot at one of the big hippos, which sunk, fatally wounded. Directly afterwards the other big fellow popped up, and Hodgson, thinking it to be the same hippo, fired again. Afterwards, when, on coming back to see whether they had risen, he found, not one only, but two dead hippopotami drifting on the surface of the pool, he was greatly surprised and disgusted.
Next day we rode over to Panscheli to see the two hippos, taking our boys with us to get them out. We found the carcases floating on the surface of the pool, surrounded by innumerable crocodiles biting and tearing at them. Despite of this our natives plunged fearlessly into the water amongst them, and fixing long stout coils of native coir rope round the bodies, soon had them hauled up on dry land. A hippo when shot sinks immediately, but only takes about two hours to rise. A crocodile, when fatally hit, jumps clean out of the water, then falls back, and also immediately sinks. But it takes much longer to rise than the hippo; thirty-six hours, or even longer, according to the state of the weather. Consequently none of those shot by Schomburgk on the previous day were visible, but on the island were above a score of the loathsome creatures, gorged to repletion, their jaws wide open, and their living toothpicks, the little tick-birds, to wit, running in and out, and cleansing their mouths from the remnants of their disgusting meal. By the way, Schomburgk tells me that the popular idea regarding the strength and toughness of the "scaly defensive armour" of the crocodile is all moonshine. The so-called "armour" is not really armour at all, but merely a leather-like integument, and a modern bullet will penetrate it almost as easily as it would so much blotting-paper.
While we were up at the island, discussing the chances of a cinema picture, our boys were cutting up the dead hippos. I never witnessed a more disgusting sight. The extremities had been gnawed off by the crocodiles during the night, but the massive trunks, and the huge heads, were intact, and the natives sliced up the meat, entrails and all, and squabbled over the tit-bits, their faces, hands, and bodies smothered in blood. I wanted to get away from the horrible scene, and at my request Schomburgk took me for a short stroll up the river. Here, in a bend on a shallow sand-spit, we came unexpectedly on a number of big turtles. At our approach they popped up their heads like so many snakes, then bobbed down again as swiftly. Schomburgk succeeded, however, in shooting one, and I had visions of turtle soup for dinner. But it sank, and could not be recovered. That night our boys gorged themselves on hippo meat, and the next morning croton oil was at a premium.
On January 16th we broke camp and started southward for Mangu. This is the first stage on our return journey to London, and Schomburgk, at my suggestion, utilised the occasion to take a "travel picture"—this is the technical trade term—showing the making up and starting of the caravan, striking the tents, porters taking up loads, and so forth. It made a very interesting film, but in order to photograph it, we had to get up much later than usual, and also delay the start, so as to get the light, so that our first day's stage was an unusually short one.
We are now marching back across the Oti flats. The season is advancing, and each day that passes, the heat increases in intensity. The very air seems to palpitate with it, and even by eight o'clock in the morning the sun's rays are so powerful that to sit in one's saddle exposed to them is to endure a mild sort of torture. We camped that night in the bush, far from any human habitation, under a big tree. It was near to where I had seen the marabou on my way up, but these beautiful creatures had now all disappeared. The burning sun had drunk up most of the water in the "vley," reducing it to the dimensions of a good-sized puddle, and the little depression, so full of bird life the week before, was now silent and deserted. In a comparatively little while the rainy season will set in, and soon afterwards all this district where we now are will be under water, and consequently of course quite impassable for man or beast. The antelope, which now cover the flats, will retire to the higher ground away from the floods, and only the hippopotami and the crocodiles, and of course the birds, will disport themselves in and about what will be in effect a vast inland sea of fresh water.
Next day we resumed our march, striking a new track a little nearer the river bank. On the way we passed many big heaps of oyster shells. These river oysters are small, but very sweet and nice, and in the season they are consumed in enormous numbers by the natives, who come down to the Oti at this spot on purpose to feast upon them, returning to their homes in a few weeks' time as fat as butter. The native does not trouble about an oyster knife in order to open what journalists of the old school used to term the "succulent bivalves." He just dumps the oysters down near a big fire, and waits for them to open of their own accord. Some of these midden-like piles of old shells are of vast extent, and are probably the accumulation of many years, possibly of centuries. These shells are now used by the Mangu people for making lime, and Schomburgk used to note the whereabouts of the heaps so that they might be able to come up and fetch them away later on.
I was surprised and uneasy at observing, soon after we camped to-day, that several Tschokossi savages, each with his bow and sheaf of poisoned arrows, were prowling about in the bush in the distance, evidently watching us, and taking stock of our movements. We tried to get in touch with them, in order to find out what their intentions were, but directly we made a movement in their direction, they as promptly retired, to reappear once more when we withdrew, and resume their silent spying upon us. It was somewhat disconcerting, but Schomburgk did not attach any very great importance to it. No doubt, he remarked, they were suspicious of our intentions, wondering what we were doing so far away from the beaten track; since even in the more remote parts of Togo, like that where we now are, there are certain well-defined caravan routes, and the natives, treacherous and cunning themselves, are always mistrustful of any white strangers who quit these recognised travel lanes, in order to adventure themselves into the bush on either side.
Nevertheless, when night fell and the camp was still, I felt strangely uneasy. I could not sleep, and the story of the white man so nearly slain in his tent by the poisoned arrows of these treacherous savages kept recurring to my mind again and again. At first a camp in a typical African bush is strangely silent, but after an hour or so there invariably begins a regular succession of noises, continuing till just before dawn. I heard, and perforce listened to them all, on that nuit blanche. First it was a horse neighing, then a hyena yowling; monkeys started chattering in the trees, a bush buck was bellowing to its mate. A little later on an old owl started "ter-hoot! ter-hoot!" somewhere near, and some crested cranes answered her with their rasping "honk! honk!" like an asthmatical motor horn. My tent was pitched under some dwarf trees, from which there proceeded a continual crackling of dry branches. Hark! Surely there are human fingers stealthily groping about the outside of my frail dwelling. I creep to the flap and look fearfully out. Then laugh softly. It is only a tree lizard that has fallen from above, and now runs pattering about the taut canvas. The moonlight is flooding the country, and all the landscape for miles around is as a level unbroken plain of snow, or frosted silver, save that here and there a huge mis-shapen baobab rears its contorted form and casts weird black shadows athwart the white brightness. I lie down and close my eyes, determining to sleep, to be startled into wakefulness again this time by the low gurgling cough of a leopard. I go to the tent flap once more, and call softly to the horses, who are commencing to neigh uneasily. As I stand there huge bat-like moths circle about with whirring wings, or dash blindly into my averted face; while from the river below comes an endless, monotonous chorus from the throats of thousands of bull-frogs—"qua-ah! quah-ah! quah-ah!" a million times repeated. At last I feel myself drifting into slumberland. The weary eyelids close peacefully over aching eyeballs. The tired brain ceases to concern itself automatically with things past or with things present. Have I slept, or have I been awake all the time, and only imagined the sleep that came not? I am not sure. But I am at all events certain that I am now wide awake, and that the camp is in an uproar. One of the horses had got loose, and being a stallion, as indeed they all are, "goes for" the one next him. The two fight furiously. The others start kicking and squealing. The boys rush out, stumbling over the tent ropes in their excitement, and cursing fluently meanwhile in half a dozen different dialects. And above the din I can distinguish Schomburgk's voice, angrily inquiring of the horse boys whose animal it is that has broken loose, and promising punishment for the careless delinquent later on. That morning at dawn comes to my tent the erring one, to beg me to intercede for him with the "master." I promised to do my best. But Schomburgk is adamant. "An example must be made," he says. "It is sheer downright carelessness. No horse can break loose like that if it is properly tethered. Some night we shall have the lot stampeded; or, worse still, one of them will be fatally injured." Suddenly a happy thought strikes me. "It was a leopard," I explain, lying fluently, for the leopard incident happened hours before the horse broke loose. "I heard the brute myself." "Oh, of course, that alters the case," he says. "A horse might conceivably get loose if frightened by a prowling leopard. I will let the fellow off with a talking to." So that little affair ends satisfactorily to all concerned, and I congratulate myself on the fact that although I have lied, I have at least lied for an unselfish object, and to some purpose. Only later on did I learn that Schomburgk knew I was fibbing all the while, since he was perfectly well aware that a leopard will not go anywhere near a horse; only he was glad of an excuse to remit the punishment without injury to discipline.