After an hour's paddling we sighted a few canoes and surf-boats under a raised clay-bank binding the stream on the left. This was Tumento (Tomento), our destination; the word means 'won't go,' as the rock is supposed to say to the water. The aspect of the Ancobra becomes gloomy and menacing. The broad bed shrinks to a ditch, almost overshadowed by its sombre walls of many-hued greens; and the dead tree-trunks of the channel, ghastly white in the dull brown shade, look to the feverish imagination like the skeleton hands and fingers of monstrous spectres outspread to bar thoroughfare.
We landed and walked a few yards to the settlement. A 'Steam-launch' sounds grandiose, and so does a 'Great Central Depôt'—seen on paper. And touching this place I was told a tale. Some time ago two young French employés, a doctor and an engineer, were sent up to the mines, and fell victims to the magical influence of the name. Quoth Jules to Alphonse, 'My friend, we will land; we will call a fiacre; we will drive to the local Three Provincial Brothers; we will eat a succulent repast, and then for a few happy hours we will forget Blackland and these ignoble blacks.' So they toiled up the stiff and slippery slope, and found a scatter of crate-huts crowning a bald head of yellow argil. Speechless with rage and horror at the sight of the 'Depôt,' they rushed headlong into the canoe, returned without a moment's delay to Axim, and, finding a steamer in the bay, incontinently went on board, flying the Dark Continent for ever.
We housed ourselves in Messieurs Swanzy and Crocker's establishment at Tumento. The climate appeared wholesome; the river brought with it a breeze, and we were evidently entering the region of woods, between the mangrove-swamps of the coast and the grass-lands of the interior.
At Tumento I met, after some twenty years, Mr. Dawson, of Cape Coast Castle. The last time it was at Dahoman Agbóme, in company with the Rev. Mr. Bernasko, who died (1872) of dropsy and heart-disease. He is now in the employment of the Tákwá, or French Company, and his local knowledge and old experience had suggested working the mines to M. Bonnat. Some forty years ago the English merchants of 'Cabo Corso' used to send their people hereabouts to dig; and more recently Mr. Carter had spent, they say, 4,000l. upon the works. He was followed by another roving Englishman, who was not more successful. The liberation of pawns and other anti-abolitionist 'fads' had so raised the wage-rate that the rich placers were presently left to the natives. We exchanged reminiscences, and he at once started down stream for Axim.
As we were unable to work, Mr. Grant proceeded to inspect the concession called 'Insimankáo,' the Asamankáo of M. Zimmermann. It is the name of the village near which Sir Charles Macarthy was slain: our authorities translated it 'I've got you,' as the poor man said to the gold, or the cruel chief to the runaway serf. Mr. Dawson, who is uncle by marriage to Mr. Grant, had also suggested this digging. Our good manager, now an adept at prospecting, found the way very foul and the place very rich. It was afterwards, as will be seen, visited by Mr. Oliver Pegler and lastly by Cameron.
Amongst the few new faces seen at Tumento were two 'Krambos,' Moslems and writers of charms and talismans. A 'Patent Improved Metallic Book,' which looked in strange company, contained their 'fetish' and apparently composed their travelling kit. Both hailed from about Tinbukhtu, but their Arabic was so imperfect that I could make nothing of their route. These men acquire considerable authority amongst the pagan negroes, who expect great things from their 'grígrís.' They managed to find us some eggs when no one else could. This Hibernian race of Gold Coast blacks had eaten or sold all its hens, and had kept only the loud-crowing cocks. The presence of these two youths convinced me that there will be a Mohammedan movement towards the Gold Coast. A few years may see thousands of them, with mosques by the dozen established upon the sea-board. The 'revival of El-Islam' shows itself nowhere so remarkably as in Africa.
At Tumento Cameron found himself growing rapidly worse. He suffered from pains in the legs, and owned that even when crossing Africa during his three years of wild life he remembered nothing more severe. In my own case there was a severe tussle between Dr. Warburg and Fever-fiend. The attacks had changed from a tertian to a quotidian, and every new paroxysm left me, like the 'possessed' of Holy Writ after the expulsion of 'devils,' utterly prostrate. During the three days' struggle I drained two bottles of 'Warburg.' The admirable drug won the victory, but it could not restore sleep or appetite.
Seeing how matters stood, and how easily bad might pass to worse, I proposed the proceeding whereby a man lived to fight another day. We were also falling short of ready money, and the tornadoes were becoming matters of daily occurrence. After a long and anxious pow-wow Cameron accepted, and it was determined to run down to the coast, and there collect health and strength for a new departure. No sooner said than done. On March 8 we left Tumento in our big canoe, passed the night at Riverside House, and next evening were inhaling, not a whit too soon, the inspiriting sea-whiffs of Axim.
The rest of my tale is soon told.
Cameron recovered health within a week, and resolved to go north again. His object was to inspect for the second time the working mines about Tákwá, and to note their present state; also to make his observations and to finish his map. He did not look in full vigour; and, knowing his Caledonian tenacity of purpose, I made him promise not to run too much risk by over-persistence. After a dîner d'Axim and discussing a plum-pudding especially made for our Christmas by a fair and kind friend at Trieste, he set out Ancobra-wards on March 16. He would have no Krumen; so our seven fellows, who refused to take service in the Effuenta mine, were paid off and shipped for 'we country.' The thirty hands ordered in mid-January appeared in mid-March, and were made over to Mr. MacLennan. My companion set out with faithful Joe, Mr. Dawson the stuffer, and his dog Nero. I did not hear of him or from him till we met at Madeira.