After a few days we reached the kingdom of Quengueza, and I received a royal welcome from the sturdy old chief, for he loved me more than any body else. That evening we remained together all alone, and talked about my long journey. He said to me, "Chally, every body is afraid; none of my free men want to follow you. They think they will never come back; but one of my slaves says he will go with you, and you can depend upon him.
"To make sure of your success," said the old king, "I want you to go where you like. I am an old man, but I am strong, and, though more than forty dry and forty rainy seasons have passed since I have been to the Ashira country, I will go there with you. I will put you myself in the hands of my friend Olenda, the Ashira king, and tell him to send you on."
Thirteen days after my arrival at Goumbi the beating of the kendo (the royal standard alarum) awoke me just before sunrise, and I heard the voice of the old chief invoking, in a loud tone, the spirits of his famous royal ancestors to protect us on our journey. The spirits he invoked were those of men who had been famous in war or as rulers, and their names had been handed down from generation to generation. Igoumbai, Wombi, Rebouka, Ngouva, Ricati, Olenga-Yombi—the skulls of all these great men were kept in the alumbi house of the king.
Quengueza was prouder than any chief I knew of the powers of his deceased ancestors, and well might he be, for several had been great warriors, and some had been wise rulers.
At 10 o'clock on the 28th of October we left Goumbi, followed by a large array of canoes. We had had some trouble before the start, for Quengueza's slaves were alarmed, and many had hid in the woods. They were afraid that their master would give them to me, and they did not desire to go off into the far country.
"Good-by" shouted the villagers on the shore; "good-by, Chally; come back to us. Take care of our king; we do not like him to go so far away with you, for he is old; but he loves you, and will accompany you part of the way." And just as we disappeared from sight a wild shout rang through the air. It was the last farewell to me of the Goumbi people.
That evening we reached the junction of the Niembai and Ovenga Rivers, and resolved to pass the night on the shore. The rivers were low, for the dry season had been unprecedented in its length—indeed, the longest that the people could remember. In that country the rainy season comes from inland, and gradually makes its way to the sea-shore, while the dry season begins at the sea-shore, and gradually makes its way inland.
That evening our camp was a merry one, for the men who went out caught a great many fish (mullets and condos). The number was prodigious, for at that season of the year these fish ascend the river as the shad do in spring in America. The smoke of many a camp-fire ascended among the trees, and jokes, and laughter, and story-telling were carried far into the night. A negro is never happier than when he has nothing to do and plenty to eat.
My couch, made of leaves, was by the side of Quengueza's, and my brave companions were all around us.
Some funny stories were told that night, and one of them I wrote down. The long dry season was the subject of conversation. A man belonging to Goumbi got up. Nchanga means the wet, Enomo the dry season. These two seasons are personified with the African. So the story went: