The first time I ascended this dangerous part of the river I engaged a pilot from one of the oldest towns; a man who had known the river all his life, who had seen it frequently at the lowest, and was therefore familiar with the channel; for the native does not forget a channel, but has a peculiarly tenacious memory for each snag and boulder that has occasionally been exposed to view. This pilot was picturesque, being dressed in a nondescript felt hat and scarcely anything else. We haggled for some time over the price of his services, but at last he agreed to come for a bar of soap and a dose of salts.
As we ascended the river Ndong Koni stood at the wheel, in the bow, while the pilot stood immediately behind him, indicating with outstretched arms the channel and the dangers on either side. I stood bending over the engine, with one hand on the lever and the other on the throttle, in an attitude of strained attention. Several times we touched hidden snags that sent a shiver through the launch and strangely affected my own vertebræ; and once or twice we struck with such force as to disconnect the propeller. Suddenly the pilot began to “take on” like a maniac, yelling and calling to his ancestors, throwing his precious hat and pursuing it from one end of the cabin to the other, as if his mind had given way under the weight of responsibility. I left the engine long enough to rush forward, seize him by the neck and throw him into a corner. Then the truth dawned upon me: he had seen a fly and was trying to kill it. I have already said that this disposition towards the fly is an obsession with the native. In no other matter is he such a fool. But if he were engaged in a life-and-death combat with an enemy a sudden opportunity to kill a fly might prove his undoing.
Upon our return we were sweeping down the river with the speed of a locomotive when I chanced to look out and found that we were passing Atakama, where we were intending to call. I shouted to the mate to stand by, and added some ungentle words of remonstrance at his stupidity in not observing that we had reached Atakama, where I had told him we were going to stop. I probably overdid the matter of remonstrance, for the mate got excited. He sprang to the anchor, and without a moment’s hesitation threw it overboard, while we were still going at nearly full speed with the swift current. The ensuing jar was such that it took me some time to realize that we were still afloat, and I could never afterwards pass the place without emotion.
Further down the river we were enlivened by the presence of several passengers going to the coast to work, or perhaps to visit. Visiting is a passion with the African. It is regulated by custom, which prescribes a limit (though a very generous one) beyond which it is not lawful to extend a visit. More than once I have known of a long-suffering host speeding the departing guest by an appeal to this law. Upon every journey with the Dorothy we were besieged with applications for a passage. No tickets were issued, but the fare was always a chicken, regardless of distance or destination. Ndong Koni was purser and looked after the chickens, collecting them before we started and feeding them on the journey. The people would not sell chickens to me, but would give them in pay for passage, since I would not accept anything else. I was therefore glad enough to have a few passengers, as it meant that I ate chicken instead of sardines or Armour’s sausage. Toko, who often officiated as cook, was always glad when he could make the announcement: “Mr. Milligan, I go burn a chicken for your chop.” When there were no chickens he had to “kill a tin.”
The basin of the Gaboon with its network of small rivers filled by the tide, as I have said, is a contrast to the scenery of the upper river. When the tide is high the foliage of the mangrove lies upon the water and the appearance is not displeasing except for its unapproachable monotony. But when the tide is out these streams are empty or nearly so and the receding water leaves the mangroves standing up six or eight feet out of the water on their mass of vertical roots as if on tiptoe. The dripping roots are usually covered with small oysters. Below this lies the deep, black, slimy mud, sometimes only half seen through the brooding vapour and stretches forth uncanny fingers and creeps from root to root. The ugliness of it is only equalled by the smell. There is nothing more hideous in the world, and I am sure that the Styx itself flows through a mangrove swamp. Sometimes the receding tide left us stranded in this black batter for several hours, and the night consigned us to mosquitoes. But as soon as the rising tide floated us we sped to the bay, leaving mosquitoes and heat and fœtid banks behind us, and blessing the Dorothy.
On several occasions I ventured out upon the open sea with the Dorothy. Twice I went to Benito, one hundred miles north of Gaboon. On the first of these journeys my old captain, Makuba, was with me instead of Ndong Koni. But Makuba’s home was at Benito, and he decided to remain there. I hired an intelligent coast man in his place, one who had had years of experience in sailing-craft and knew the intervening coast perfectly. The sea was so heavy that we kept as close to the shore as we dared, although it was fringed with rocks and reefs. The night we chose for our return was exceedingly dark and the sea rough. The engine was in an obstinate mood and my entire attention was occupied with it.
Suddenly I became conscious that the sea was abeam, instead of on our starboard bow. Leaving the engine, I ran forward, and looked at the compass. We were going directly towards the shore. I actually heard the sound of the breakers on the reef. My intelligent wheelman, in order to render me the best possible service, had thought to stimulate his mind and muscle with a few swags from a bottle of rum, which he had thoughtfully brought with him. But, owing perhaps to the lurching of the vessel, he swallowed more than he intended, with the result that he was soon comfortably sleeping while the Dorothy sped towards destruction. “Be ye angry, and sin not,” is the twofold injunction of Scripture. I may as well confess that I concentrated upon the first part of the injunction and clean forgot the second part.
The wind blew harder, and we realized that we were out on a stormy sea with a house-launch. On this occasion a friend, Mr. Northam, was with me. The rough sea made very hard work at the wheel, but the erstwhile pilot lay on the floor in a somnolent drunk. Mr. Northam and I took the wheel alternately an hour at a time, all that night. For a while it was not a matter of making progress but of weathering the gale. We were seventeen hours running fifty miles, from Hanje to Corisco, and when at last, next morning, we reached shelter and dropped anchor, we all three, Mr. Northam, myself and the Dorothy were about done out.
On one occasion the Dorothy, in the interest of humanity, played the part of a man-of-war. We were out on the bay, at least a mile from the shore, when our attention was attracted by the strange manœuvres of a large number of canoes all equipped with sails. They were far from us, and were between us and the shore. We soon saw that it was a case of piracy. In all, there were six canoes. Five of them were sailing in a wide circle around the other; but the circle became narrower, and still narrower, as they closed in upon their victim like white-winged birds of prey. The poor canoe in the centre turned first one way, then another, only each time to find its escape cut off by the revolving circle of canoes. Ndong Koni understood every move they made and explained it to me. He begged me to interfere. I consented, and he sprang to the wheel with a shout. It was necessary at first to conceal our intention lest the canoes should escape to the shore. So he took a course towards a point beyond them, going towards the shore, but at such an angle that they supposed we were passing on. Then suddenly he turned towards them and at full speed bore down upon them.
By the time we had reached them they had closed in upon the central canoe and had taken everything that was in it. There were thirty men against five. The five men in the single canoe had been to Gaboon with their garden produce, or perhaps a raft of mahogany logs, for which they had bought several guns, one or two whole bolts of calico, a web of sail-cloth, and a heap of sundry cheap ornaments for their wives, which might have been sold by the pound or bushel. The robbers took all these goods and even took some of the paddles the men were using. I was now at the wheel. I kept the Dorothy under way and cut a circle around them, while I ordered them to return all the stolen goods. They resented it as much as if the goods were actually their own and I the plunderer. But while they hesitated I ran against their largest canoe, in which sat the chief, striking it at an angle, near the bow, so as not to break it, but to send a shiver through it that showed them how completely they were at my mercy. They were willing to do anything in the world if I would only agree not to repeat that last manœuvre. They restored all the stolen goods; and since the single canoe was going my way, I took it in tow to the delight of the occupants.