A steep path, a yellow streak on the dark green ground, leads up to the Fort, which, situated beyond the settlement, commands the creek and landing-place. It is evidently an old Portuguese building. The frontage is a loop-holed curtain of masonry, flanked on the right by a round tower—a mere shell—and on the left by a square turret, pent-housed, with cajan mats. A few iron guns, honeycombed to the core, lie around the walls; the entrance is dilapidated; and the place, now undergoing repairs, is like most ‘Forts’ in these regions, about as capable of defence as the castled crag of Drachenfels. Hearing the people of Pemba call it, as at Maskat, ‘Gurayza,’ evidently a corruption of Igreja, and now meaning a combination of fortress and jail, I inquired about Portuguese ruins, and heard of two deserted churches, in one of which a bit of steeple is still standing. The Lusitanians, in later times, long made the Green Isle one of their principal slave-depôts: even in 1822 their ships traded regularly to Chak-Chak. I did not visit the ruins, which are said to be distant one day’s march: there is nothing to interest man in the relics of the semi-barbarous European rule. The Island also boasts of a single mosque. The Pemba men pray at home, and they are said to pray little. The population is held to be half that of Zanzibar, upon less than two-thirds, perhaps only one-half, of the area; but this appears a considerable exaggeration.
CHAK CHAK FORT (PEMBA ISLAND).
Pemba supplies her bigger sister-isle with a little excellent ghee and poor rice. The principal exports are cocoas and cloves; and here, as every where along the coast, cowries are plentiful. Bullocks, reared on the island, cost from $6 to $10; sheep, brought from the mainland, $3 to $4; and goats, which are rare and dear, from $7 to $9. Cash is evidently not wanting. Fowls are sold at 20 to 23 for $1—half the price of Zanzibar,—and eggs are very cheap, two or three being procured for a pice. The people complain that this year all provisions are exceptionally dear. The Banyans, who make Pemba their head-quarters, demand high agio for small change, giving only 111 pice for the German crown, whereas 128 is the legal rate at the capital. They also regulate the price of provisions according to the Zanzibar market. They have different weights and measures—the Kaylah, for instance, is greater—and, as usual in these regions, they keep the gross amount of exports and imports a profound secret.
Our gallant captain of the beard—‘the Lord have mercy upon him for a hen!’—determined to doze away the day, and to pass a snug sleepy night, anchored in some quiet bight. His crew also, although living upon Jack fruit, and supplied with only two skins of fresh water, grumbled exceedingly when I ordered a δρομος νυχθημερος. For a whole day they had tacked about the creek and basin till the shades of evening fell, and force was required to keep the canvas aloft. Presently, when running out of Pemba, grave doubts and misgivings about the wisdom of the proceeding came over me as the moonless night fell like a pall, and, exaggerated by the dim twinkling of the stars, rose within biscuit-toss the silhouettes of islet and flat rock, whence proceeded the threatening sounds of a ‘wash.’ Soon, however, emerging from the reefs, we smelt sea air, and we felt with pleasure the throb of the Indian Ocean.
During the three days that followed our patience was sorely tried. The sky was now misty, hiding the shore, so that sometimes we went south instead of north; then the spitting deepened to heavy rain, whilst the thermometer stood at 83° (F.). The Azyab or N. East wind, high and contrary, blew great guns, and a strong current set clean against us. The combing sea, with waves raised some five feet, was most unpleasant during the long moonless nights: on this coast there are more shoals and coralline reefs than harbours, and the lee-shore, within a few yards of which we were periodically drifted, was steep to, with rocky banks and bars. Mariners rarely sail by night, except before a fair and steady wind, and in the open roadsteads they are ill-defended from the strong N. East monsoon. We long sighted the two high hummocks called Wasin Peaks, and we were compelled to ride at anchor off Gasi Bay, the strained old Riami creaking at every timber, and rolling gunwales under. Pleasant scenes were the rule. Mutton-livered Saíd, groaning and weeping, started up every half-hour during that ‘black night,’ and screamed with voice altered by violent flesh-quake, till he makes us all nervous as himself. The captain, sitting on the Zuli (deck), cried, Rih! Rih!—wind! wind!—asked what could be done, and more than once, as we were driven on towards a reef, definitively declared the Riami lost. The sailors, green and yellow with hard work and hunger, tacking out with the Barri (land breeze), and in with the Azyab, would not bale except under the stick. The iron boat sinking once, and twice snapping her painter in the long rolling sea, gave us abundant trouble. At last, as a thick cloud veiled Jupiter and Venus, a cry arose that she had again broken loose; and we resolved to make Mombasah, trusting that Tate would restore her. More than once we thought of landing, and of walking along the shore to our destination: for if all was unpleasant outside the ‘Beden,’ the inside, with its atmosphere of cockroaches, bilge water, and rotting wood, was scarcely more attractive. Hitherto, from the moment of our leaving England, the expedition had met with little but ill luck.
At length, on January 16th, after long and wistfully gazing, as the mist rose, at the three conical heads, which the Portuguese call ‘Corôa de Mombaça,’ and when almost despairing of reaching them, the wind suddenly became favourable, and we were driven round Ra’as Betani into the land-locked harbour, right joyful to cast anchor opposite English Point, and to pass the quiet night of which we had disappointed our crew at Pemba Island.
The run into Mombasah was truly characteristic of Africa. The men hailed us from afar with the query, ‘What news?’ We were unmercifully derided as Whites by the black nymphs, bathing in the costume of Camoens’ Nereids. And the sable imps, sunning themselves upon the white sand, shouted the free-and-easy Muzungu—‘Europeans!’
I was not a little astonished at the first sight of this ‘indomitable village,’ whose history is that of the whole East African coast. Can this paltry settlement have been the capital of the King of the Zing, concerning whom Arab travellers and geographers have written such marvels? Is this the place whose stubborn patriotism and turbulent valour rendered her for nearly two centuries a thorn in the side of the Portuguese? that gave them more trouble than all the 2000 miles of shore? that allowed herself to be burnt three times to the ground, and that twice succeeded in massacring an enemy whom she had failed to expel? Can this miserable village have produced heroes, the Samson-like Ahmad bin Mohammed; the generous and chivalrous Abdullah bin Ahmad, and Mubarak, whose daring valour displayed during the war against Sayyid Said, still lives in popular song? Of the second named a story is told, which might belong to the knightly days of Europe. During the siege of Lamu, where, by-the-by, he lent his shoulders as a scaling-ladder to his father’s soldiers, the young chief received a poulet from a fair friend, containing these words: ‘I hear that under our walls is a person named Abdullah; if he be the man I love, he will not remain so near me without claiming my hospitality!’ To hear was to obey. The Mazrui, taking his trusty sabre, proved himself capable of the perilous enterprise, and after returning to his father’s camp, he sent a slave to the governor with the simple message: ‘Last night I slept in Lamu, and right soon I will sleep in it with all my men.’
