And now to recount the most unpleasant part of my first adventure in East Africa.
Having paid a visit to Aden, I returned to Berbera in April, 1855, prepared to march upon the head waters of the Nile.
But Fate and the British authorities were against me. I had done too much—I had dared to make Berbera a rival port. They were not scrupulous at Aden, even to the taking of life.
My little party consisted of forty-two muskets, including three officers and myself. The men, however, were not to be trusted, but after repeated applications I could not obtain an escort of Somali policemen. Matters looked ugly, and the more so as there was no retreat.
The fair of Berbera, which had opened in early October, was breaking up, and the wild clansmen were retiring from the seaboard to their native hills. The harbour rapidly emptied; happily, however, for us, a single boat remained there.
We slept comfortably on April 18th, agreeing to have a final shot at the gazelles before marching. Between 2 a.m. and 3 a.m. we were roused by a rush of men like a roar of a stormy wind. I learned
afterwards that our enemies numbered between three and four hundred. We armed ourselves with all speed, whilst our party, after firing a single volley, ran away as quickly as possible.
THE ATTACK ON THE CAMP AT BERBERA.