A RESIDENT’S WIFE IN NIGERIA

A RESIDENT’S WIFE
IN NIGERIA

By
CONSTANCE LARYMORE

WITH FORTY-ONE ILLUSTRATIONS AND A PORTRAIT OF
THE AUTHOR

LONDON
GEORGE ROUTLEDGE & SONS, LIMITED
New York: E. P. DUTTON & CO
1908

Dedication

TO THE VERY BEST OF COMRADES
AND FELLOW-TRAVELLERS
‘THE SAHIB’

Preface

In offering this little book to the public, I want to admit at once that it is in no sense intended as a literary effort, but is merely a record, gathered up from journals and notes of our everyday life and journeys which have occupied the last five years.

My excuse for offering it is that I have been specially fortunate in having opportunities and privileges of travelling about a little bit of the world where few Englishmen have been; and though sorely handicapped by very limited scientific knowledge, I have tried always to keep eyes and ears open.

Only a short time ago, I read these words, written by a wise man, on this very subject—

‘But the best way of travelling is to ride on a horse through country where there are no railways, and no roads, and where, accordingly, the people are rooted and untroubled in mind, and do as little work as they can. Such travelling, it is not to be questioned, makes the best books.’

In the hope that he is right—for, as I have said, he is a wise man—I send my little book forth, to take its chance. The last few chapters, I am aware, should belong to a separate volume, and they were never intended for publication in this form. But they are the outcome of actual experience, and not generalizing from hearsay. Most of them, indeed, were written originally in 1902, but they have been revised, corrected, and corrected again, as time showed me my mistakes and failures. In manuscript form they had been read by many of my friends who pronounced them ‘good,’ and it is by their request that these chapters are included here. It is to these friends that I offer my grateful thanks for the majority and the best of my illustrations. I also have to acknowledge the kindness of the Editors of Chambers Journal and the Pall Mall Gazette in permitting the reproduction of articles published by them at different times.

CONSTANCE LARYMORE.

Contents

List of Illustrations

CHAPTER I
Sierra Leone to Lokoja

On the 10th of April, 1902, we left Sierra Leone, embarking on the Sekondi for Forcados, en route to Northern Nigeria. We had spent seven months in Sierra Leone, my husband doing duty with a company of native gunners, and had grown to heartily dislike the place. In spite of its undeniable beauty, it is the possessor of a most unpleasant climate, and the impossibility of getting horse exercise, and the necessity of continually ascending or descending steep hills, either on foot, or, worse still, in a hammock, was most distasteful to us both after four years of the free and active life of Indian military stations. So we could not help looking upon our departure somewhat as a release, and even bidding good-bye to our many kind friends did not entirely damp our joy as we steamed out of the harbour and passed the lighthouse, gleaming white amidst the luxuriant greenery and bright blue water, and set our faces and thoughts towards Nigeria, and the life of a Resident there.

It certainly was a step in the darkest dark; no Englishwoman yet had gone where I meant to go, or done what I hoped to do: we knew little or nothing of the conditions of life before us except that it was ‘rough, very rough!’ I had met only one official from Nigeria, and he looked at me doubtfully and in silence when I announced my intention of accompanying my husband, much as one regards a wretched scraggy-looking screw, sometimes produced by an Irish horse-dealer, with confident asseverations as to his qualities as a hunter—and yet, the ‘screw’ scrambles along fairly all right sometimes! One of my friends in Sierra Leone—having visited Accra—felt qualified to speak, and, in endeavouring to dissuade us from this rash venture, assured me that ‘Nigeria was just like Accra—not a tree, not a blade of grass anywhere!!’ (This is quoted with apologies to Accra!) I have often smiled to myself over that pithy saying, while marching through magnificent forests, and miles of open, grassy, park-like country! Luckily, I still permitted myself to hope for trees and grass, and felt that my four years in India, and some experience of camping in Kashmir, would, at all events, prove to have been a useful education, and seven months in Sierra Leone could leave one few surprises in the shape of an unpleasant climate.

On the Sekondi we were fortunate to find an old friend of Indian days, Captain Ashburnham of the 60th Rifles, also faring forth to Nigeria for the first time, to serve with the W.A.F.F. or, as it is called there, the Northern Nigeria Regiment. He was armed with valuable experience, learnt from the South African War and life in Uganda, and many were the talks we had, and the plans we made, sitting under the awning, on the deck, while the Sekondi rolled her way south.

One of our fellow-passengers had already been to Nigeria, but I think he had outlived his enthusiasms a little, and possibly thought me an unlikely specimen to survive among ‘the fittest,’ for he responded but little to my tiresome curiosity, while the ship’s officers were unanimous in headshaking and mournful prophecies, judging Nigeria generally by their own cursory stay at Burutu, and cheerfully promising to convey me home ‘next trip’—if I should be above ground to be conveyed! At table I sat next to a Lagos official, who proved himself a real friend, and I have never ceased to be grateful to him for his encouragement and cheerful prognostications, at a time when I sorely needed them. Mr. Stone’s work at Lagos—that of road construction—lay entirely amongst the up-country natives, and he would tell me a thousand anecdotes of their simple kindly ways, courteous hospitality, and child-like interest in white people—prophesying that I should be friends with them at once, and, if anything, get rather spoilt amongst them—a forecast which has been amply fulfilled since.

The trip was an uneventful one, though not the pleasantest I have made down the Coast: the sole occurrence of interest that I can recall was that we lost one of our boats overboard during the night, and the following morning, when the loss was discovered, we turned back and sought the open seas for the derelict—and found it! A couple of stalwart Kru-boys were despatched overboard, and swam to the boat, only to find there were neither oars nor paddles inside, and they presented a comically helpless spectacle, sitting in the boat, and frantically endeavouring to paddle with their hands! They had to do another swim, to possess themselves of the paddles thrown from the ship before they could bring their prize alongside. And so on—by day, sunshine, sapphire water, the fringe of low grey coast-line, which never loses its fascination for me, by night, glorious stars and an infant moon, and—night and day alike, the monotonous, infinitely soothing roll of the ship, as the huge swell swept shorewards, to break itself in thundering surf, away by the grey palm-trees and the yellow sand.

We left the Sekondi outside the bar at Forcados, transhipped ourselves and our belongings to the ‘branch boat,’ a small steamer of light draft, and spent four or five weary hot hours crossing the bar and finding our way up to Burutu. Here we were most kindly and hospitably received by the Marine Superintendent, who gave me a most welcome cup of tea, and assisted us to arrange ourselves on the Karonga, one of the Government stern-wheelers, which travel up and down the Niger, carrying mails and passengers. These little boats consist of an upper and lower deck, the latter loaded with cargo, fuel and native passengers, the former reserved for European travellers, and though, nowadays, they boast of regular cabins, when I first made the acquaintance of the Karonga the after part of the deck was merely divided off into partitions by canvas screens, an arrangement which I still prefer to a stuffy cabin! At Burutu we bought stores, etc., for the up-river trip, and as we had brought a couple of native servants from Sierra Leone, we shook down quite comfortably.

That evening we dined on board the Jebba, which was lying at Burutu, and, later, embarked on our little stern-wheeler, and set out on our river journey, under a full moon, threading our way along one of the labyrinths of creeks—a liquid silver path, walled on each side with straight lines of mangroves, dense black shadows, and weird, bare white roots and stems—a scene suggestive of mystery, and full of a strange beauty of its own.

I enjoyed every day of that trip; we were a cheery party, and all prepared to make the best of life: as we left the Delta behind, the country became more diversified, little villages appeared on the banks and we were surrounded by tiny canoes, the occupants of which, boys and girls, clamoured loudly in greeting, and fierce competition ensued over the empty tins and bottles flung to them.

The second evening we were destined to discover the weak points of the Karonga; the rain came down in torrents, poured through the roof of the deck in vigorous streams, soaking beds and bedding in five minutes. We stripped our beds, and sat patiently, watching the water dripping steadily on the bare canvas, till, in sheer weariness, we rolled ourselves up in mackintoshes, rigged waterproof sheets on top of the mosquito nets, and slept soundly in spite of wet pillows and the prevailing drippiness!

In the morning, however, hot sunshine turned our sorrow into joy—every available space was employed for the drying of wet blankets and clothing, and, with all our gloom dispersed, Captain Ashburnham and I mixed the dough, and treated ourselves to hot scones for breakfast!

We arrived at Lokoja rather late one evening, and after sleeping that night on the Karonga, the next morning we were most kindly taken in charge by Mr. Gollan, then Chief Justice, who was temporarily filling the place of the last Resident, just invalided home. Mr. Gollan escorted us to our quarters, a massively built double-storeyed stone house, known as the ‘Preperanda,’ which had previously been the Mess-house of the N.N. Regiment, but was now in a very bad state of repair. The rooms below were used as offices, and those above as a dwelling-house. The verandah was in a ruinous condition, and most of the glass had vanished from the doors and windows; even the shutters had fallen off, so that, when the tornadoes came, as they did with annoying frequency, salvation lay in one direction only, to collect all one’s belongings in frantic haste in a heap in the centre of the floor, cover them with waterproof sheets, and sit firmly on them till the storm had spent itself, when the floor could be mopped up, and books, pictures, etc., returned to their places.

Still, I have always loved the Preperanda: it was almost buried in trees, gorgeous scarlet ‘flamboyant’ (Poinciana Regia), red and yellow acacias, deliciously scented frangipani, both white and pink, huge bushes of rosy oleanders, lime-trees, mangoes, orange-trees and guavas: leaning over the verandah railing in the fragrant soft darkness, I then and there took to heart the lesson which I have tried to practise ever since—the absolute duty of planting trees everywhere for the benefit of one’s successors.

At the Preperanda, I began to study the art of Nigerian housekeeping, and forthwith engaged a cook, a most unprepossessing looking individual, a Kru-boy, rejoicing in the name of Jim Dow; he proved an excellent cook, as they go in West Africa, but a frail vessel where intoxicants were concerned; nevertheless, he did us good service for three years in many places, was untiring on the march, and, in the main, sober. The further knowledge I acquired on this all-important subject I have gathered together in a later chapter for the sake of convenience.

Our first month in Lokoja was, in many ways, a busy one; my husband had his hands only too full of official work, we bought a couple of ponies, and I set to work to organize a stable, realizing sadly in a day or two that the amenities and conveniences of Indian life were not to be found here, any more than inside the house. We made friends, too, with the small community of white people in the station, the nursing sisters, N.N.R. officers and civilian officials, and many were the helping hands and kindly hints given to us, on all sides, and most gratefully received.

Lokoja is placed most picturesquely on a strip of level ground, encircled by hills and the Niger. Above the native town towers the Patti Hill, a flat-topped mountain some eight hundred feet high, on the summit of which, originally, there was a town and many acres of cultivation. The town has vanished, but traces of old farms can easily be seen, and the former occupiers are, even now, anxious to return to their perch and build a new village. They seem to have a high opinion of the soil up there, and we have often wished that the English community might be able to form a new station on that breezy hill-top instead of grilling down by the river bank. Perhaps it may come to pass some day, for the present Cantonment is, most unfortunately, down-stream from the native town.

The Preperanda ([p. 7])

Polo at Lokoja ([p. 9])

I often wonder whether any one who had not seen the place for ten years or so would be able to recognize it to-day! The change, even since I have known it, has been amazing. When we landed there, five years ago, the ‘Civil Lines’ consisted of a straggling row of bungalows, rejoicing in the significant appellation of ‘Blackwater Crescent’! In front stretched a waste of swampy ground, thickly covered with coarse, rank grass.

To-day, with its numbers of neat bungalows, well-tended little gardens, the swamp drained and converted into a recreation ground, containing tennis-courts, cricket-pitch, etc., good roads, and flowering trees and hedges, it is as pretty a little cantonment as one could wish to see, and the view from the hills behind is extremely beautiful—the two rivers, Niger and Benue meeting just below the cantonment, winding down to the confluence like two silver ribbons, visible for miles up river.

The 2nd Battalion of the N.N.R. are quartered in Lokoja, with a company of native gunners, and we still call their lines ‘the camp’—a survival of the days when the soldiers existed in wretched discomfort, under canvas. Behind the camp is the polo ground, and, on the farthest ridge, the new hospital is prominent, with the Sisters’ bungalow, and medical officers’ quarters. Personally, I have always thought Lokoja a far prettier and pleasanter place than Zungeru, the new headquarters, but comparisons are ever ungracious, and lasting impressions of places—to me—depend so much on associations, that Lokoja has always been more of a ‘home’ than a ‘headquarters’ to me. I have always been sorry to leave it, and always glad and contented to see it again.

CHAPTER II
On Tour

Exactly a month after our arrival, we set forth on our first tour in the ‘bush.’ The object of our journey was the delimitation of the Northern Nigeria-Lagos boundary, from Aiede to Owo, and at the former place we were to meet the Lagos Travelling Commissioner.

We made our preparations mostly by the light of our Kashmir camping experience, for, beyond generalities, none of my friends in Lokoja—with the best will in the world—could help me very much, never yet having had such a problem to tackle! Indeed, I think, had they advised me frankly, they would have said, ‘Don’t go!’ and they were quite wise and kind enough to refrain from saying that!

So, on the 28th of May, we rode leisurely out of Lokoja, about four o’clock, having decided on a short march for the first day—a very sound precaution, on which we have acted ever since. We jogged down to the Mimi River, on the far side of which our camp was arranged, the carriers and servants having been sent on ahead, so that everything was ready for us in the little ‘rest-house’ (a thatched shelter, innocent of walls), hot baths announced, and dinner preparing.

Things were not exactly ship-shape that night—they never are at a first halt—and the sandflies and mosquitoes gave us a bad time; but, all the same, we were very happy at being out in camp, with a good six weeks before us, to be crammed with novel experiences, new flowers, new birds, new butterflies to discover, heaps to learn about everything, and no drawbacks, saving a little physical discomfort, a comparatively trifling matter to energetic inquisitive folks like ourselves.

‘A rare holiday’ we said, and so it proved itself, amply!

The next morning we were off early, and rode along through lovely park-like country, wide stretches of grass, picturesquely dotted with clumps of palms and light bushes, crossed by streams the courses of which are marked by a broad band of thick luxuriant foliage—like a dark green ribbon lying across the sunny plain of grass. I made delighted acquaintance with the Gloriosa Superba lily, not the magnificent apricot yellow climbing variety, but a more delicately regal one, with glowing crimson petals edged with gold, standing up among the grass, slender, tall and graceful. That night we had heavy rain, but our rest-house, mercifully, was watertight and very cosy, and we smiled contentedly, and promised ourselves a cool march for the morrow. And so we had:—it was a perfect day full of joyful discoveries, climbing beside the narrow path, like a sheet of flame, was Mussaenda Elegans in full bloom, two furry grey monkeys sitting solemnly on a rock, birds of wonderful blue, crimson and yellow, some scarcely larger than beetles, a tiny village tucked away at the foot of a little round hill, and, later, when we climbed the Shokko-Shokko hill, great clumps of pure white lilies, the bulbs of which were the size of a man’s head, as I discovered, when, afterwards, I bore one back in triumph to Lokoja. At Shokko-Shokko we celebrated my birthday with a dinner-party of two, and I cannot recall a cheerier or more light-hearted birthday in my life!

The following day, I had my first view of forest country: I had listened so often to my husband’s descriptions of the Ashanti forests and their dreary monotony, and I was ready to cry out to him that it was, after all, the loveliest thing in the world—though, later on, I quite came round to his opinion!

It is a rather specially beautiful piece of forest round Oduapi; the sunshine filters down pleasantly through the branches of huge trees and swinging creepers, on the thick undergrowth of bushes and ferns; there are acres and acres of pineapples, the smell of them rather overpowering, for they are such prickly souls that the natives gather only those which grow close to the path, while the rest rot in their hundreds; but the sickening scent attracts perfectly splendid butterflies—positive coveys of them, of all shapes, sizes and colours.

We passed a tiny farm, belonging to an ex-soldier, a Hausa; he and his family work the little homestead, and the acres increase year by year, I am glad to say! On this first visit he and his wife came out to greet us, and, with the simplest kindly hospitality, offered us of their best—kola-nuts and wild honey, both of which I ate on the spot, to their great delight. The honey was rather a problem, on a fidgety pony, with a twig for a fork!

The Chief of Oduapi, a most cheery old gentleman, with a loud and jovial laugh, came out to meet us, accompanied by his ‘suite,’ and I tried hard not to laugh—the caparisoned steeds were so quaint, and still more so their riders, picturesque in flowing gowns, made of velvet, originally of loud gaudy colours, but softened by time and exposure to perfectly artistic tones. Oduapi’s gown is always a delight to me, the blue has become the blue of Gobelin, and the green the softest of sage tints. Their dignity was sadly impaired by the head-dress of huge flapping straw Hausa hats, with leather strings—now perching rakishly, now pressed down, granny-wise, now flapping wildly half-way down the rider’s back, as his pony plunged and reared.

‘Kuka’ (Baobab) Trees. ([p. 14])

A Hausa Beauty. ([p. 19])

The rest-house at Oduapi is placed in a clearing in the forest—a lovely spot, with troops of little grey monkeys chattering and swinging in the trees, the undergrowth alive with birds and butterflies, and an occasional ‘ough, ough,’ betraying the whereabouts of the larger dog-faced monkeys, who, however, did not show themselves, though they seemed to resent our intrusion.

That night, I woke suddenly, listening intently, to hear, for the first time, the roar of a lion. It was a very awe-inspiring sound, echoing again and again in the depths of the silent forest, followed by a deep hoarse cough, and made one, for the moment, consider our thatched shelter somewhat inadequate! However, we had a fire burning outside, and, remembering the saying that no lion will tackle a mosquito curtain (and, further, being very sleepy!), I merely took the precaution of lifting Timmie, our Irish terrier, on to my bed, and slept placidly till dawn.

After a hot march, we reached Kabba, and though we were most kindly received by the officer commanding the detachment there we found the ruinous tumble-down ‘fort’ so uncomfortable that we were glad to leave again. Afterwards, I saw a good deal more of Kabba, and learnt to love it, and think it far the most beautiful spot I have seen in Northern Nigeria. At Lukpa, where the village nestles away among the trees, and the rest-house is set on a hill with magnificent views all round, an incident occurred which is worth describing in detail, for it ‘gives one furiously to think’!

‘The Sahib’—as, from ineradicable Indian habit I still commonly call my husband—had gone out at sunset, after deer, and, during his absence, the entire population of the village came streaming up the hill to the rest-house, all talking loudly and at once, and evidently under the influence of strong excitement. I was, by that time, well accustomed to creating a sensation wherever I appeared, no white woman having been seen previously; but these people struck me as having more than salutations in their minds and on their clamouring tongues. I had been six weeks in the country, my knowledge of Hausa was confined to salutations and a few simple words, so I summoned our interpreter to help me to entertain my visitors. They chattered, shouted and gesticulated at ‘Paul,’ who eventually explained to me, smilingly, that they had never seen a white woman before, and were anxious to offer me a personal welcome. I nodded and smiled in high gratification, thanked them cordially, and, when I had exhausted my small stock of polite salutations, told the interpreter to give them leave to go home. This they did, somewhat reluctantly, I thought; but after describing the interview with some amusement to the Sahib, I dismissed the matter from my mind. Six weeks later we passed through Lukpa again, on our way back to Lokoja, and found it deserted—not a man, woman or child, not a goat, not a fowl—all gone, obviously fled into the bush! I felt distinctly hurt at this churlish behaviour on the part of my late admirers, and learnt, long afterwards, that, on our first visit, our precious interpreter and others of our party had seized and killed every goat and fowl in the village! The wretched owners had rushed up to the rest-house to complain and implore protection, and all they got was: ‘Thank you! Thank you! Yes, that’s all right! You can go home now!’ I am not ashamed to confess that I cried when I made that discovery! The lesson, however, went home to us both, and drove us to work ceaselessly at the Hausa language, knowing there could be no security for ourselves, or justice for the people, until we could be independent of dishonest interpretation.

At Ekiurin, we pitched our tent under a great shady tree in the centre of the village, and strolled about in the cool of the evening, finding large plantations of scarlet and yellow Cannas, the seeds of which are pierced and threaded into Mahomedan rosaries. As a great mark of confidence, I was shown the interior of the ‘Ju-ju house,’ and was as disappointed as one usually is at the unravelling of a mystery! The shrine consisted of a dark, empty room, swept very clean, the walls were roughly coloured red, and on one was drawn an unshapely, meaningless figure, executed, apparently, in white chalk. In the verandah, another reddened wall was decorated with similar designs, and in a prominent place was the sacrificial stone, black and roughly carved. In a niche in the wall stood a carved wooden figure, some eighteen inches high, hideous and much blackened with exposure and nasty gory smears, caused, however, by nothing less innocent than the blood of an occasional fowl.

And so on to Aiede—the country alternating between grass-land and forest. I found precious trophies in the shape of terrestrial orchids, varying in hue from palest mauve to deepest purple, with delicate reddish-brown stems, and growing about three feet high. There were yellow ones and some were green, all most wonderfully striped, spotted and splashed with contrasting colours.

Very prominent features of the Nigerian landscape are the red ant hills, sometimes attaining a great height, and most fantastic in shape and appearance. They remind me of a story told of a gallant officer, more zealous than comprehending, who was engaged in quelling a petty disturbance in West Africa. This hero, spying one of these queer-looking clay erections, took it to be a ‘heathen fetish,’ and, plunging his sword through and through the imaginary idol, exclaimed to the astonished villagers and his troops: ‘Thus does the Great White Queen destroy the Black Man’s Ju-ju!’ The villagers, of course, thought him mad, but were too polite to say so, and the native soldiers must have smiled!

At one small village I created a painful impression, apparently; the headmen, who came to the usual interview, lay on the ground, their heads wrapped tightly in their gowns, and groaned aloud, in abject fear, and no persuasion could induce them to speak or look up till I retired from the scene! The scare subsided happily, before we left, and they recorded their opinion that I had come straight from Heaven, and besought me not to permit it to rain for a day or two. I could but hope for the best, and felt relieved when we got away without a shower!

The roads, or rather tracks, were terribly bad going when rain caught us on the march; we crossed mountains, stumbling along among masses of rock, loose boulders and slippery clay, on foot, of course, riding being out of the question, and our hearts ached for our plucky little ponies, labouring and clambering up—the descent in each case being worse and more dangerous. They were indeed ‘as active as monkeys and as clever as cats.’ On the return journey we tied putties on their knees to save them in case of a slip, and felt much happier.

Aiede is a straggling, rather dilapidated Yoruba town; it looked pretty, as there is any amount of vegetation, bright sunshine and cool shade, but the prevailing smells are atrocious, and the people most unattractive. They are Yorubas, but appear to be exceptionally lazy and idle, ignorant and fetish-ridden. Strictly ‘on the quiet,’ I was taken to see the Ju-ju stone, hidden away inside a circular enclosure: a large rock against which was propped a roughly carved wooden image, very ugly, smeared all over with blood, feathers, etc., as was also the ground. I was told that a sacrifice (of a goat or a fowl) is made there every morning, so that the image may be ‘watered with blood’; there were indications of special oblations having been made—possibly on our account!

A compound was pointed out to me as the dwelling of their ‘Ju-ju woman,’ described as ‘white,’ held by the Aiede folks in great reverence; many sacrifices of dogs are made to her, as she has a particular fancy for eating them! My Irish terrier ran fearlessly in, and, lest he should get his throat cut, I rushed in after him, and came face to face with the old lady. She was a loathsome object, an albino negress, with snow-white hair, skin of a horrible blanched colour, and a terrible pair of red eyes. Her astonishment at the sight of me was quite ludicrous; she may have considered me as a possible rival, about to set up in her line of business! The Lagos Travelling Commissioner, who we met at Aiede, seemed to have grave suspicions of the people there in the matter of twin-murder and human sacrifices—they certainly looked capable of both.

Part of the road from Aiede to Alashigidi was declared impassable for the ponies, so we sent them round by a longer road and did the eight miles on foot. It was rather a pleasant variety, and included some rough climbing, after which I was made acquainted with palm wine; it was icy cold and quite fresh, and seemed to us delicious, but I suppose we were very thirsty, for it has never seemed so good, to me, since.

After leaving Alashigidi, the country was dense forest, damp, gloomy and utterly monotonous, only compensated for by the magnificent butterflies. We succeeded in capturing a good many, especially of a kind that was, at that time, new to me—a truly beautiful person, with glorious colouring, the wings quite iridescent, appearing in one light, pale green, in another deep glowing purple, in another shimmering white, with a general effect of mother-of-pearl. Along the banks of the Osé River a rough path was blazed, to mark the boundary line, and we made an expedition along it on foot. It was a very interesting experience, penetrating this silent forest, where no human being had passed before, and delightful to notice how utterly fearless were the birds and butterflies, scarcely moving at our approach. The men who hacked out the path for us had immense difficulty in inducing a large python to ‘move on’—he had to be actually burnt out before he would remove himself! The river itself was very lovely, cool and silent in deepest shade, winding noiselessly through the forest. Our objective was Iporo, a little standing camp, composed of much dilapidated grass huts in a clearing, on the banks of a stream, really tinkling and purling exactly like a Scotch burn, and which I flew to sketch on the spot!

The following morning we started back on our long return journey, passing from Alashigidi to Erun, where we spent what should have been Coronation Day. On the strength of this, we decided to hold a durbar of our own, congratulating ourselves on being far from the crowded streets of London, and all unconscious of the tragic shadow then hanging over England, while the King lay dangerously ill.

A number of Chiefs came in from the surrounding villages, to pay their respects, all arrayed in their bravest attire, and a very gaudy crowd they were! Erun himself was arrayed in a garment composed of stripes of crimson and gold plush, embroidered on the breast with gold and sequins; over this was worn a long mantle of silver grey plush—it made my heart ache to see its delicate folds trailing in the dust! On his head was a comical high hat, shaped like a Bishop’s mitre, made entirely of white and coloured beads; from it, all round, hung a long, thick fringe of beads, thoroughly concealing his face. This original costume was completed by a necklace of coral, huge slippers, also of bead-work, and a staff completely covered with beads in intricate patterns, surmounted by a bead dicky-bird!

He sat, with immense dignity, under a crimson and gold State umbrella, with the other Chiefs arranged in a semicircle, strictly according to precedence, making a brilliant splash of colour with their robes of blue, purple and green velvet and brocade.

While my husband explained carefully to them why the day had a special significance for us all, and described what we imagined to be going on at Westminster, I whiled away the time by making a sketch of the old Chief, and took some photographs, but found our guests most fidgety folks to get into a group—at the critical moment some one was sure to get up and stroll away, or lean across to make a remark to his neighbour!

In the evening, rather to our dismay, they all turned up again, singly this time, and gave us a good deal of useful information. Before each other they would say nothing, this being a matter of etiquette, but, in private, were brimful of troubles, complaints and general talk.

From Erun we made our way back to Kabba, coming in for quantities of rain, but usually at night, so we had little real inconvenience from it, except in the matter of fording swollen streams. On one of these occasions, crawling cautiously into the river, the ponies suddenly dropped out of their depth, and were obliged to swim for it. It was decidedly uncomfortable for ponies and riders, but the good little souls made a valiant struggle against the rushing current, and landed us safe, though wet, on the far side. The worst part of that business was the struggle to get off my dripping boots!

We were delighted to leave the stuffy forest behind, and find ourselves back in the fresh air and breezes of Kabba. It was an uneventful march, my chief concern the catching of butterflies. We got one or two fine “Charaxes,” and greatly exercised ourselves over the moths that thronged the sweet-scented blossoms of the paw-paw trees at night.

We got back to Lokoja about the middle of July, having thoroughly enjoyed our trek, and, myself, feeling very pleased with my initiation into the methods of African travel.

CHAPTER III
Bida and Egga

We spent the rest of July and August in Lokoja—my husband, as usual, full of work; I, very busy gardening. We watched the building of the bungalow destined for us, and, as soon as the actual building was finished, we set to work, and made our garden, having the coarse elephant grass dug out, and turfy ‘dhoob’ grass planted instead. Numberless seedlings and cuttings were put in, dotted over the grass; we had scarcely one failure, and my seedlings are now respectable sized trees!

But trouble overtook us too—our dearly-loved little Irish terrier sickened and died, as did also my pony, ‘Mouse,’ who had carried me so gallantly over all those miles we had travelled. Both losses, I imagine, were the result of that ‘beautiful forest country.’

About this time the High Commissioner arrived, bringing Lady Lugard; they paid Lokoja a short visit before going on to Zungeru, and the real Coronation Day was celebrated. In the middle of August we moved into our new bungalow, and, for me, naturally, the days flew until the beginning of September.

My husband was very anxious to meet and confer with the Resident of Nupe, who was less able to leave his headquarters at the time than we were, and, as we were nothing loth to extend our acquaintance with Nigeria, we packed up, and started for Bida.

We went up river on one of the stern-wheelers, as far as Dakmon on the Kaduna River; there we found ponies, sent down from Bida to meet us, and rode in, an easy march of about fourteen miles. We were struck with the general air of prosperity and comfort displayed by the flourishing farms and neat little hamlets, and were rather amused to come upon a scarecrow, the first I had seen in this country.

It was a great day for Bida: no white woman had ever been there, and the Emir and his people were determined to do honour to the event; so, as we approached the town, a great concourse of people began to throng down the hill from the Residency. At the head of the procession rode Mr. Goldsmith, the Acting Resident, followed by the Emir, an immensely tall and stout personage, gorgeously attired, and having a State umbrella held over his head as he rode, and ostrich feather fans waved by attendants on either side. Behind him followed the members of his family and ‘Court officials,’ and the procession ended in a surging crowd, on horseback and on foot. They made an attractive picture, splashes of brilliant colour and snowy white robes and turbans dashing hither and thither, pulling up their horses suddenly on their haunches, with a great display of jingling brass and gaudy leather trappings, then darting off again, scattering the crowd like irresponsible butterflies! After the ceremonial greetings we all proceeded to the Residency, where more greetings ensued, and, on his dismounting, one could get a better idea of the vast proportions of the Emir—a truly huge man.

The city of Bida lies rather in a hollow, surrounded by low hills; its wall extends for about nine miles, and is pierced by a number of large gateways, most cunningly set, with dark recesses in their depths—probably with a view to dealing effectually with unexpected or undesired visitors! Inside, the streets are lined with shady trees, which give a delightfully cool appearance to the thatched huts and market places. The Emir’s palace is a great pile of clay buildings enclosed within a high wall, and on the occasion when, accompanied by Mr. Goldsmith, we went to visit him, we had an opportunity of inspecting the Nupe style of building and decoration. The inner apartments were more or less like great vaults, unlighted save by the doorways, and appeared to us, at first, to be in pitch-darkness; but, after a time, when our eyes became accustomed to the gloom, we could follow the outline of the high vaulted roof and the massive pillars, the surface of which is plastered and beautifully polished (I believe with special clay, obtained from the inside of ant-heaps), resembling black marble.

It was an odd experience, sitting in the warm scented darkness, our host and his people more guessed at than seen, great fans softly waving behind him, and every rustle of every gown wafting out the heavy perfume of musk, an interpreter conveyed in a hushed, monotonous murmur endless salutations, compliments and pious aspirations between us, the atmosphere was highly soporific, and we were all relieved when the Emir proposed a move to the verandah.

I requested, and obtained permission to pay a visit to the ladies of the harem, and, escorted by an aged—and presumably privileged—dotard, I passed through the heavy door and found as great a contrast to the dim quiet scene I had just left as could well be imagined! A crowd of women, some mere girls, others middle-aged, nearly all carrying babies, and a swarm of brown toddlers, all laughing, clapping their hands, calling greetings and salutations incessantly. To them it was indeed a ‘bolt from the blue,’ and, in their placid lives of seclusion, a marvellous and startling occurrence; but, though they were frank enough in their expressions of astonishment and pleasure, their perfect courtesy, that fine characteristic of the African people, prevailed to restrain them. There was no mobbing, no pushing, or crowding. I was invited to seat myself on a large carved black stool, while the Emir’s mother, a very aged sweet-faced woman, evidently set in authority above the rest, crouched on the ground beside me, gently patting and smoothing my skirts and feet, while she poured forth greetings and salutations, thanking Allah fervently that ‘in her old age, she had been spared to see this wonderful sight.’

The Emir escorting us in to Bida. ([p. 27])

Details of Gown Embroidery. ([p. 31])

It was very touching, and, at that time, I little thought I should ever see her again, though, afterwards, I had frequent messages from her to say that she still lived and still remembered, and when would I come back and visit her again?

The Emir presented us with an enormous and almost embarrassing ‘dash’ or present—oxen, sheep, fowls and various special Bida products. Fortunately, the custom (which hurts no one’s feelings) is to dispose of the live stock in the market and present to the donor, in money or cloth, the full value of his present, so I ‘bought in’ eagerly some of the really beautiful coloured grass mats—there were seventy-five to choose from!—and handsome brass-work, and bore them off with me when, on the following day, we took leave of our kind host, and cantered down to the Wonangi Creek, where our steel canoe was waiting, and slowly dropped down stream to Lokoja.

I afterwards sent the Emir of Bida, as a token of friendship, a Hausa gown, made for me locally, of white material, much pleated, and heavily embroidered in white in the customary patterns, and this embroidery I outlined and embellished with gold thread, producing a very fine rich effect, which was highly appreciated by my friend.

A few words on the subject of Hausa embroidery may not be inappropriate here, for it is distinctly interesting, and, in its way, artistic.

The finest and most elaborate needlework is found on the Hausa gown or tobe, which, in itself, deserves a few words of description in detail. The accompanying drawing gives an accurate idea of its shape—a surplice-like garment of immense width, reaching to the ankles. The material is frequently pleated all over from neck to knees, where it falls loose, taking on a most up-to-date flow and expansion! I have seen as much as thirty yards of wide English cloth put into one tobe; under these circumstances, the weight of the gown is, of course, very considerable.

These garments are made of every kind of stuff, according to the length of the wearer’s purse; sometimes they are fashioned of European cotton velvets, brocades and plush, and, in the districts where the Lagos trade makes its influence felt, many of these gowns are to be seen, made, alas, of shoddy velveteen, and the beautiful native needlework replaced by tawdry tinsel and sequins. The vast majority, however, are composed of country-made cloth, which is, by necessity of the tiny, primitive looms, woven in narrow strips, some four inches wide, and laboriously sewn together. Some of it is dyed with indigo or magenta, but the best kind remains a creamy white, resembling a coarse heavy linen, and forms a most desirable background for elaborate stitchery. The tobe has a deep pocket on the left breast, reaching to the knees, and it is on this, principally, that the embroidery is concentrated: there is also a single circular design at the back, high on the left shoulder, which never varies, though the decoration in front may be amplified and elaborated at pleasure.

All the designs used in Hausa embroidery are obviously symbolical, and their significance and history is a subject of deep interest, but it is most difficult to acquire reliable information on the point, as the people themselves are, for the most part, hopelessly ignorant about it, and merely reproduce the same designs from generation to generation, for the excellent—and, to them, conclusive reason that their fathers and grandfathers did so!

The most frequent designs are the Fuska (face) and the Almakashi (scissors); these I have always found included in every decorative scheme, however intricate and elaborate. The pattern is drawn in native ink, with a pointed wooden pen; it is entirely free-hand, and is rather a go-as-you-please process, with little regard for symmetry, though, in the case of the gown I have illustrated, I think the complicated conventional design is marvellously accurate for a free-hand performance.

The work is carried out in native thread, occasionally dyed with indigo, or to the correct Islamic shade of brilliant green but usually of the same creamy tint as the cloth itself. The stitchery is absolutely simple, being mainly chain-stitch squares filled in with long stitches, and a curious handsome effect is produced by a series of tiny eyelets, worked in buttonhole stitch, giving a rich damask appearance. Couching stitch is also used, and most patterns are outlined with French knots.

There is also another quite distinct kind of embroidery, universally employed for decorating the enormously wide trousers worn underneath the tobes. These voluminous garments terminate in an almost tightfitting band, some nine inches deep, just above the ankle, and it is here, and on the outside of the leg, that this needlework is lavished—a cunning piece of vanity, as it is well displayed when the wearer strides about with a sufficient swagger!

A typical Hausa Gown. ([p. 30])

Trouser Embroidery. ([p. 32])

The designs, as can be seen from the sketch, are quite different from those used on the tobes; some are distinctly Masonic in character, some are quite ecclesiastical, others suggestive of Persian embroidery. They are carried out in gaily-coloured wools, procured from Lagos,—the usual tints being bright crimson, royal blue, purple, orange, green and black. The combination I am aware, sounds daring, to say the least of it, but the result is wonderfully effective and brilliant, without being in the least bit gaudy, and it always seems to me a thousand pities that so much industry and real artistic effectiveness should be thrown away, usually, on the most wretched materials, cheap cotton cloth from Manchester very often, and on these inferior wools which will not bear the ordeal of a single washing.

I have interested myself in collecting these designs, and have worked them myself on the best linens with fast-dyed silks and the equally beautiful modern flax threads, and the result is eminently satisfactory—the designs, of course, requiring to be corrected and straightened. Indeed, for tea-cloths, borders, cushions or doyleys, and for an endless variety of decorative purposes, I think it would be difficult to find embroidery of a more striking or original kind than that peculiar to Nigeria.

In November, my husband had orders to accompany a patrol on the Northern-Southern Nigeria frontier, and as friction with some of the natives was a possible contingency, it was not thought advisable for me to go too, so I remained in Lokoja alone, feeling sad and rather lonely, and envying my better half the opportunity of finding ‘pastures new’ which I was unable to share.

On leaving, the Sahib commended me to the care of the Sariki and Chiefs of Lokoja, mainly, I think, as a friendly joke, but they took the charge quite seriously, dear souls, the whole cavalcade turning up regularly each morning to make careful inquiries of the most minute description, and to ask whether I did not ‘feel sad without the Resident!’ After a few days they informed me that ‘it was quite impossible for them to take proper care of me while I lived so far away from them—they had a fine compound swept out, next to the Sariki’s house, in the town—would I not come and live there, till the Judge’s return?’

It was rather a dilemma, and I had to meet it by telling them how much I should have enjoyed visiting them, but that I had my duty too, and I must look after our house and garden, ponies and dogs, so as to keep everything in order, and finally satisfied their kind hearts by promising to send to them for all and anything that I might want! Each time a letter arrived from the absentee, I summoned my friends, read it aloud, translating each sentence as I went into halting Hausa; every single word was repeated and passed round eagerly, discussed and commented upon, amidst much chewing of kola-nuts, provided by the hostess, and ponderous messages of an affectionate nature were impressively given me for transmission in my reply!

The arrival of General and Mrs. Kemball cheered me greatly, and the week they spent in Lokoja was a very happy one for me, in Mrs. Kemball’s bright and sympathetic companionship. There was a cheery dinner-party at the Mess in their honour, and I said good-bye very regretfully when they went on their way to Zungeru. Shortly afterwards we had another glimpse of them as they passed through on their way down river, and we little thought then that our next meeting would be at Trinity Lodge, Cambridge!

One morning, three weeks later, I put on my riding habit with a very light heart, and rode out, accompanied by the whole of the Sariki’s cavalcade, to escort our ‘judge’ home in triumph. It was a glorious morning, and perfectly delightful riding through the crops of guinea-corn, now ripe, and standing ten feet high,—the leaves splashed and stained with crimson, purple and gold, like gaudy, waving ribbons, the heavy plumes of grain swaying above one’s head, brilliant red, or black and white. Underneath the pony’s feet was a veritable carpet of a tiny lilac blossom which always flourishes among the guinea-corn at harvest time and hardly anywhere else. ‘The little pink flower that grows in the wheat’ always comes into my mind, but this one happens to be mauve instead!

We escorted our lord and master home—a most rowdy party, the boldest spirits wildly racing their ponies along the winding track—girths (composed of widths of ancient cotton cloth!) parting company continually, and saddle and rider together taking a flying toss into the grass, amid shrieks of delight from the rest of the crowd. At each tiny hamlet the entire party would tumble off their ponies, greet and salute, salute and greet, drink quantities of water, climb on again, set the horns and drums braying their loudest, and gallop off irresponsibly, like the light-hearted children that they are.

My husband afterwards told me that in the course of the patrol they passed through a valley where the inhabitants of the rocks and hills above apparently made their homes in holes and caves; one member of the party idly asked what was the scientific name for cave-dwellers, it having slipped his memory for the moment. No one appeared to be able to supply the word, when the native interpreter, plodding along behind, came up, saying: ‘Pardon me, sir, don’t you mean Troglodytes?’ The Englishman, amazed, asked where he had ever heard such a word, and ‘George’ replied placidly: ‘I was reading a dictionary one day, and I saw it!’ I cannot imagine myself reading a German or Italian dictionary for pleasure, and storing in my mind, for future use, conversationally, a specially unusual scientific term; I only wish I could!

Christmas Day of that year found us at Egga, a small riverside town on the right bank of the Niger, sixty miles above Lokoja. Canon Robinson (in Hausaland) describes Egga as an island, from which one may conclude that he only visited the place in the rainy season; we have marched overland to Egga, and walked on dry—very dry—ground all around it in May, and, three months later, passed over the same spots, steaming easily in a stern-wheeler! It consists really of three or four elevated tongues of land, with low-lying creeks in between, which are so flooded by the rise of the river, that to traverse the town from end to end several canoe journeys are necessary. On the high ground the grass-roofed huts are clustered thick as bees, they perch perilously on the very edge, threatening to topple into the creek below—perhaps they do, sometimes, for the banks suffer considerably at each annual rise in the water. Our domicile was perched in solitary state on one of the small Ararats, farthest from the river bank, and that Christmas morning, creeping from under the low verandah of the rest-house, I had a glorious and uninterrupted view of mile upon mile of grass-land, flanked in the distance by the curious flat-topped hills at Padda. The distance was marked only by the ‘wire road,’ the telegraph line leaving Egga and disappearing into the pearly iridescent Harmattan mists in an ever diminishing perspective—the one link with civilization, unless one counts, too, the ceaseless meagre stream of humble traders, in ones and twos, padding in noiseless procession at the foot of our little hill, making their way to Ilorin, at that peculiar half trot, half run, which looks like walking, but which covers the ground in amazing fashion.

It was rather an event, this Christmas Day, the first we had spent in Nigeria, and much care and thought had been expended on the dinner menu. There was a plump turkey to be roasted in a native oven, a most uncompromising-looking affair, consisting of a large earthenware pot, half buried in the ground; this is heated by the simple process of stuffing it full of blazing wood, and when the cook deems the temperature high enough, he will haul out the fuel, pop in the turkey, plant a flat piece of tin on the mouth of the oven, piling it up with much burning wood—and, wonderful to relate, it will roast the turkey to perfection!

The chef had his work cut out for him that day, for the feast was to include a most desirable fat teal, shot the day before, which had to be similarly cooked in a similar oven; also a plum-pudding from ‘Home’, round which most pleasurable anticipations hovered.

When the Christmas presents had been distributed to the household, the morning spent itself peacefully in writing and sketching, the Sahib working away, as the habit of political officers ever is out here, in spite of my loud insistence on a whole holiday: all arrangements had been made for an afternoon on the river, among the wild duck, and luncheon had been despatched, when, with housewifely care, I bethought me of making final arrangements for dinner, and summoned the cook. He was not forthcoming, but, after much whispering and suppressed giggling among the small boys of the household, Momo, our faithful head steward, appeared, taking generous support from the side of the doorway, and adorned with a vacant giddy smile that turned my heart to water!

Very slowly he spoke, and with deadly care; speech was very difficult, but he struggled through manfully, and, though I was bubbling with wrath, I could not help feeling sincere admiration. ‘The cook was not at all well.... Yes, he certainly had drunk far too much pito (native beer) ... and he, Momo, had had a little too—for Kismiss!’—smiling vaguely at the floor. ‘No, he did not think Jim Dow would be able to walk till three o’clock, but’—with renewed cheerfulness, and a tremendous pull on himself—‘Cook say he get quite well very soon, cook dinner proper, Missis go shoot, no fear at all.... Jim Dow fit to cook all right very soon!...’

Well, there was no help for it—I certainly could not go and find the delinquent in the purlieus of the town, nor, had I found him, could I have done anything, so we resigned ourselves, sending the steward to ‘sleep it off,’ and reflecting that we might as well spend the afternoon happily as not, we stepped warily into the native canoe, determined to banish all dismal forebodings on the very slender chances of our getting any dinner at all!

The canoe, an ordinary dug-out, about twenty feet long, contained our two camp chairs, the guns, four polers, and Ganna.

Ganna is one of my many friends out here; he is the younger brother of the Rogun or Chief of Egga, and has been interpreter to the late Captain Abadie, and, like all who came in contact with him, had the liveliest admiration and affection for him. He is in the latter stages of consumption, poor soul, and has a thin eager face, a fair command of English, and a terrible rending cough. He gets thinner each time I see him, and though he sometimes comes to Lokoja, and attends the native hospital there, the doctors can never give me any hope of his recovery. Poor Ganna, I wonder if I shall ever see him again; the last time was when we were poling down the river in a steel canoe, and, in the early morning, as we drifted slowly past a tiny hamlet, a figure flew down the bank, and the familiar emaciated face and skinny, almost transparent arms appeared over the side, bearing a fine leopard skin, while, in a voice saddeningly husky and laboured, Ganna explained how he had kept the skin for us, watched for us many days, knowing of our approach in the weird, mysterious fashion in which news travels in Africa. ‘Yes, he was doing a little work now, but his chest hurt him, and he would come to Lokoja when his work was finished ... he would go again to the hospital, indeed he would, and ask the Likitor (Doctor!) for some more of that good medicine.... Good-bye!... Sai wota rana! (lit. till another day) ...’ and the canoe dropped down stream, leaving the sunken hollow eyes watching us from the bank, and the painful hacking cough reaching our ears after the corner was rounded. Poor Ganna, I wonder where our ‘wota rana’ meeting will take place—not in Africa, I think!

A Camp on the River Bank. ([p. 40])

Roofing at Keffi. ([p. 51])

However, this particular Christmas Day was four years ago, and Ganna was then a stronger man, and a keen shikari, and had arranged this shoot. I looked at him with special interest, as he crouched, smiling, at one end of the canoe, clad in a dazzling white Hausa gown, heavily embroidered in green—there seemed to be more of him than usual, and the hope crossed my mind that he was perhaps gaining flesh. But, when we had poled down the creek where the water-lilies are clustered thick, past the Niger Company’s warehouses, and out on to the great grey river, nearly half a mile wide, and shrouded in pale Harmattan mists, and were sweeping rapidly down stream in the direction of the duck grounds, Ganna dissipated my hopes by cautiously divesting himself of his white garb, and emerging, clad in a faultless Norfolk suit of light tweed—a present from his beloved master, as he explained proudly.

The water was like oil, greyness was everywhere as soon as the sun began to drop into the haze, and a great silence prevailed—the loudest sound being the crackling of numberless bush fires along the banks, for at this season of the year the dry grass is fired, and in all directions there are leaping tongues of flame and columns of smoke.

Presently, the ‘Quack! Quack!’ of contented ducks could be heard, and we crept off our chairs and crouched in the bottom of our canoe, the polers squatting motionless at either end, their wet poles slowly dripping into the greasy-looking water, while the canoe drifted down to the sand-bank where the ducks were—in their hundreds, some standing in the water, preening their feathers, others solemnly waddling about on the bank—all discoursing ceaselessly in their gossippy, monotonous language. The whole bank was dark with them, tall, graceful ‘crown-birds’ standing motionless or stalking thoughtfully about on the sand, plump, sturdy mallards, and restless little teal, all busy, chatty, supremely happy, and utterly unconscious of the danger creeping on them, in the drifting canoe.

We were so absorbed in watching the scene that we forgot the object of our expedition, and, indeed, it seemed nothing short of criminal to disturb a party so contented and peaceful, but the thousands of restless little bright eyes spied the glint of a gun barrel, the alarm was given, there was a rushing whirr, and the sky over our heads was instantly dark with beating wings. A couple of shots brought down some victims, and the canoe wended its way to another duck-ground, after landing me on a sand-bank, for the purpose of sketching a picturesque little hamlet built there by the fisher-folk during the season of low water, when they spend their time catching and drying fish; later, when the water rises, and, each year, sweeps away the whole colony of frail grass huts, they return to Egga, and dispose of their season’s catch.

When the canoe, laden with further spoils, picked me up again, the sun was just setting in the banks of mist, a gorgeous colour display of sunset had turned the whole world rose-colour, giving to the water a strange pale violet hue, and we had a good six miles to pole against a swift current, so the nose of the canoe was turned up stream, and we crept along close under the banks, where the stream is least strong, and the edge gives some purchase for the poles.

Our progress seemed incredibly slow, but I could have sat there for ever, slipping through the still evening, the silence only broken, away behind us, by the faint quacking of disturbed and outraged ducks, returning cautiously to the feeding-grounds; one felt at peace with all the world, and I could not even bother to give an anxious thought to the complete uncertainty of our dinner!

Ahead of us was a tiny canoe, with only one occupant, but fully laden with newly-made earthenware pots, coming to seek a market at Egga; steadily the man pulled, watching the sinking sun all the while; then, as it finally disappeared, he deliberately poled into a flat sand-bank, tied the canoe to the pole fixed in the sand, carefully washed and prepared himself, then, with his face devoutly raised to the eastward sky, he commenced his evening devotions. A picturesque figure with the flaming sunset afterglow as a background, intent only on his prayer, unconscious of our approach under the bank, alone and—to his knowledge—unseen, not a gesture, not a movement of the hands, not a single word was omitted or hurried over—a curious blending of simplicity and solemnity, and, as we left him behind, I murmured, ‘Thy Father which seeth in secret ...’ and the Sahib nodded his head comprehendingly.

It was quite dark when we slid into the Egga creek, and figures began to move on the bank and lights flash as we pulled up; the most prominent was a short, squat personage, clad in spotless white drill, white shoes and a jaunty straw hat in his hand, holding the big lantern and generally directing the disembarkation! Jim Dow, the sinner, restored to his former greatness, perfectly sober and full of serene cheerfulness—assuring us genially that he was ‘quite well again’ and the dinner progressing most satisfactorily!

A scramble up to the rest-house, hot baths and a change—and Jim Dow was quite as good as his word!

CHAPTER IV
Keffi

Immediately after the New Year we marched north from Egga to Pateji, where we were to meet the Resident of Ilorin, and with him accomplish the delimitating of the Ilorin-Kabba boundary. At one of our halts we were lunching one day, when the servants ran in, begging us, in some excitement, to ‘come and look!’ In the dusty roadway were a couple of donkeys, loaded with potash, a pair of evil-looking men, and two of the most forlorn, wretched little mites of children that it has ever been my misfortune to see. The younger of the two was certainly not more than four or five years old, both were crying helplessly, stumbling along in the dust, limping and exhausted. They had begged our boys for water, and so, most fortunately, attracted their attention.

It was the first case of obvious slavery I had ever seen, and the terrible cruelty of it made one’s blood boil. My husband of course detained the ‘caravan,’ the leader of which declared glibly that the children were not slaves, but his own offspring, and that their mother was just coming along behind. The elder toddler had spirit enough to cry out: ‘We are not, we are not! He bought us, for a horse ... a thin horse.’ ... with a mournful touch of self-pity. Presently, a young girl came toiling along the road, and the caravan leader flung at her a flood of a language unknown to us, so that, when questioned, she spiritlessly agreed that they were her children. She was, herself not more than fourteen or fifteen, and could not possibly have been the mother of either child; her owner, when sternly reminded of this, hurriedly shifted his ground, saying that this was not the woman of whom he had spoken, the children’s mother was still further behind. This was greeted with loud denials from the mites, who had already placed themselves definitely under our protection! We had the caravan leader removed when the next dejected figure came slowly in sight, and the new-comer immediately and frankly described them all as slaves, confirmed the children’s story, and with pitiful indifference remarked that they had already covered twelve miles that day, and were prepared to travel another six, so as to avoid the observation of the ‘White Judge.’

The men were taken into custody, the donkeys and loads confiscated, the women elected to attach themselves to another caravan, travelling back to their own district, and we took charge of the children. After a good meal and twelve hours’ sleep, they were different creatures, but their swollen feet made it almost impossible for them to walk a yard. I carried the tiny boy on my knee, and, after a grunt or two of satisfaction, his head dropped back on my shoulder, and he slept for hours. It was not exactly a comfortable arrangement in a side-saddle, and we were much relieved when we reached Pateji, and could ship our charges down to Lokoja, where they became two of the liveliest inmates of the Freed Slaves’ Home.

At Pateji, my husband found orders to return at once to Lokoja, hand over the Province to a new Resident, then on his way out from England, and start for Keffi, the headquarters of the Nassarawa Province, where he was to take temporary charge. We crossed to Mureji, at the mouth of the Kaduna River, and returned to Lokoja to make preparations for our departure. There was excitement and unrest in the air, events in the North had made the Kano-Sokoto Expedition an immediate necessity, the greater part of the Force had already concentrated at Zaria, and the Lokoja garrison was reinforced by troops from Southern Nigeria, under the command of Major Moorhouse. Dr. Cargill, the Resident of Nassarawa, was urgently needed at Kano, so, after a week spent by my husband in initiating his successor into the mysteries of the daily work of a Resident, we started off for Keffi, congratulating ourselves on this opportunity of seeing a new part of the country.

We left Lokoja one hot day at the end of January, occupying a steel canoe which was towed alongside by the steam canoe Black Swan. This latter was—well, ‘occupied’ is not the word—overflowed by a party of officers and N.C.O.s; Captain Macarthy Morrogh and Mr. Steward being on their way to join the Anglo-German Boundary Commission, Major Mackenzie and Mr. Carré from Southern Nigeria, bound for Loko and Nassarawa to recruit carriers. The two former had, of necessity, a great quantity of stores and baggage, and the discomfort of that crowded canoe must have been extreme, intensified as it was by the heat from their steam pipes: I should imagine that on parting with four of us at Loko, the sentiments of the remainder must have been unmixed relief!

The Benue River struck me as being remarkably clearer and purer in colour than the Niger, and the scenery is very lovely. Each evening we ‘tied up’ by a convenient sand-bank, and the men camped there, rejoiced, I fancy, to spread themselves out a bit. One evening the Black Swan contingent gave a dinner-party, the novel feature of which was that our menu was to consist of a ‘French dinner’—a most luxurious invention for travellers, one large box containing five tins, each representing a course, with fascinating French names. These only need to be heated in boiling water—and, behold—your French dinner! As we were a party of six, two ‘dinners’ were requisitioned, and we fared royally on delicious soup for a start. After that, I fear the various cooks and boys got hopelessly astray among the courses, for I found myself eating filleted sole, with apple charlotte by way of a sauce! We gave up all attempt at sequence after that, and simply ate our way through a list of most excellent dainties, discovering many new and delectable combinations, and voted the ‘dinners’ an unqualified success!

At Loko the party broke up; we found ponies waiting for us, and hastened off as soon as possible, for it is a most unpleasant mosquito-ridden spot. The road to Keffi is monotonous and wearisome, consisting of the path cleared for the construction of the telegraph line, and it is the dullest process following that interminable wire, winding in between the stumps of decapitated trees. The only halt of any interest on the way was at Nassarawa, a town which had evidently ‘seen better days,’ finely situated on rising ground above a broad river. Keffi has always had a sinister reputation—firstly as a famous slave market, and later on as the scene of Captain Moloney’s tragic death. The Keffi people are queer restless folks, finding their greatest pleasure, apparently, in munafiki or intrigue of all kinds. Our native friends in Lokoja shook their heads dismally, and deplored our being obliged to go among these ‘bad, hard-hearted people,’ I remember, and were evidently prepared for all kinds of unpleasant developments!

As we rode in through the South Gate, and up the long sandy road through the town, it seemed indeed a desolate spot after the teeming streets of Lokoja; nearly all the houses were unroofed (a precaution against fire in the dry season), many were ruinous, and scarcely a soul was to be seen. But, glancing into the narrow low doorways, one was conscious of lurking forms and inquisitive peeping eyes; there were subdued scufflings as, seeing themselves observed, the peepers scuttled off into devious back alleys, like frightened rabbits. The town had been practically deserted since the trouble of the previous autumn, when Captain Moloney’s death took place, and the outlook was indeed a depressing one.

The Resident was occupying the great, mud-built pile, originally the house of the Magaji, forming one side of an open square, just opposite it was the Mosque, and on the left the Sariki’s ‘palace.’

The Residency was, to say the least of it, a gloomy spot for a dwelling-house—a very large compound, surrounded by a thirty foot wall, affording, at best, a view of the sky alone, the inside occupied by a labyrinth of houses, some mere circular huts, dark and low, others well-built, flat-roofed cool houses. Many of the smaller huts had been pulled down, giving more light and air and improving matters greatly. It was very quiet, very prison-like, scarcely a sound penetrated from outside, save the cry of the Muezzins from the Mosque opposite, and only terrific smells from the indigo dye-pits reminded one that there was life and industry beyond the wall.

Dr. Cargill left for Kano almost immediately, and we settled down to await the arrival of our relief, Mr. Granville. A detachment of the N.N.R. had ‘barracks’ near the South Gate, and Mr. Wilcox, in command, was our daily companion when we went out shooting in the evenings, the country round Keffi producing plenty of birds, or when we explored the higher ground behind the town, searching for a suitable site for a new Residency.

On the summit of a high hill, overlooking the town, was a circular wall, enclosing a solitary grave, the resting-place of Captain Moloney, and, in the square, outside the Mosque, stood a tall white wooden cross, marking the spot where he died. All honour to those who placed it there—but that cross has always been a sorrow to me: close beside the wall of the Mosque, it could not fail to be an offence to a Mahomedan community, and, being on the way to the market, each man, woman and child who passed, must be reminded daily of the tragedy that had ruined the prosperity of the town, and wrecked so many innocent, humble homes.

During the short time we were at Keffi, we spared no pains in endeavouring to ‘re-establish confidence’ walking about the town in every direction, and striving to make friends with the people. They were, even then, beginning timidly to return and to come to the market, and, before we left, we had the satisfaction of seeing hundreds of nice new thatched roofs appearing, and the householders coming to their doors to call greetings and salutations, instead of making panic-stricken rushes in the opposite direction!

Native Drummers at Keffi. ([p. 54])

A Detachment of the N.N. Regt. ([p. 68])

Our thoughts, while there, were naturally occupied with the sad events of Captain Moloney’s death, and we heard the story in detail from the Resident’s clerk, a native called Silva, who was present, and as his account of it is rather a curious one, I may mention it here, though, of course, I cannot vouch for the absolute truth of it, and give it just as it was told to me. The main facts (I am quoting partly from the best authority, the High Commissioner’s Annual Report for 1902) are as follows:—

On the day in question, Captain Moloney, being anxious to ‘come to an amicable understanding’ with this influential Chief, the Magaji, who had apparently been giving him much trouble throughout the Province, slave-raiding and robbing caravans, and preferring to endeavour by argument and persuasion to win him over to the side of law and order, and make of him a useful friend to Government, determined on a decisive interview, while he had a large military force temporarily at Keffi, to back up his authority if needful. The account runs thus:—

‘Captain Moloney ... went to the king’s house, and the Magaji was summoned to attend. He declined to do so, and Mr. Webster, Assistant Resident, was sent to fetch him. Misled by the Government native agent, to whose intrigue and false representations it now appears probable that the deplorable results which followed were directly due, Mr. Webster entered the private quarters—probably the harem—of the Magaji. That Chief was surrounded by armed retainers, who immediately set upon Mr. Webster. He very narrowly escaped with his life, and was eventually seized and literally thrown out. Captain Moloney then sent him to call up a detachment of troops. The Magaji, seeing his arrest was imminent, rushed out of his house, and killed Captain Moloney and the agent, Awudu, before the soldiers could reach the spot. He and his followers then fled, but sent messages that they would presently return and finish their work.’

Now, this clerk, Silva, had been a hospital dresser, and the task of preparing Captain Moloney’s body for burial, fell to him. He declared earnestly and emphatically that there was no wound on the body whatsoever, except an arrow wound in the neck which had pierced the carotid artery, and caused almost immediate death. He further described how the Magaji was armed with a ‘gun’ only, he did not touch Captain Moloney, but rode straight at Awudu, the native agent, who, as described by the High Commissioner, was the cause of the whole trouble, and, crying out, ‘You have done this! It is your fault!’—shot him dead, as he ran, in terror, towards the barracks. The whole crowd of the Magaji’s followers, rushing out like a swarm of angry bees, of course fired off a cloud of arrows, more or less at random, and, from this man’s earnestly told story, it seems fairly certain that it was one of these which killed Captain Moloney. The old Sariki of Keffi, who was standing close by, endeavoured to support the wounded man, but received an arrow himself, in the foot—a slight wound, however, from which he recovered.

These differing facts do not, however, in the least remove from the Magaji’s shoulders the indirect guilt of murder, although his hand may not have given the actual death-blow; he was said to have been killed at Burmi, among the army of the Ex-Sultan of Sokoto, in the following July.

We beguiled some of the long hot hours by making an effort to learn Arabic; we did not progress very far or very fast, but, indeed, I think circumstances were rather against us! Our teacher spoke Arabic and Hausa—no English, of course—we spoke Hausa, much English, and, in moments of excitement, as our habit is—voluble Hindustani! Our text-book and dictionary were Arabic-French! Something like a miniature Tower of Babel ensued, and we decided to postpone our studies till a more favourable opportunity presented itself! I also amused myself by decorating the whitewashed walls of our house with sketches, which completely depleted my paint-box, but entertained me mightily—I believe they are still to be seen there!

We had bought a very handsome pony in Keffi, and one day, to our distress, he developed violent colic, and appeared to be dying. Every available remedy was applied, and for the whole afternoon he was fomented with hot blankets, but he lay helpless, swollen, limp and moaning. We then resigned him, at our boy’s earnest request, into the hands of a native horse-doctor, a wizened old individual, who stood and looked, then, remarking laconically, ‘He will recover!’ proceeded, with great difficulty, of course, to get the pony on to his feet. He then passed his hands five or six times down the pony’s flanks, murmuring to himself the while, finally taking the muzzle in both hands, he looked very hard into the pony’s eyes, recited a string of rapid Arabic sentences and, stooping low, blew into each nostril three times. I stood by watching and wondering, then, in amazement, realized that a cure had been effected! The ‘doctor’ stood aside, and announced as placidly as ever: ‘He has recovered!’ directing that a bran mash should be given at once; this ‘Kim’ ate eagerly, and never showed another symptom of pain or illness! I cannot explain this cure in any way; I can only say that I saw it done, and done in less than ten minutes, and that the wizard stoutly declined to give me his prescription or to share the secret!

Shortly afterwards, Mr. Granville arrived and took over, and we rode out of Keffi, feeling distinctly light-hearted, as we had ‘Leave’ and ‘Home’ before us. But the impression of gloom and sadness left on my mind by Keffi was deepened later, for we never saw Mr. Wilcox again, as he died at Bauchi a few months later. Mr. Carré, one of our cheery party on the Benue River, also died, Mr. Granville was invalided Home later, dangerously ill, and Major Marsh, whose kind genial face was the last we saw on leaving Lokoja, was killed in July at Burmi, to our sorrow.

We started for England at the end of March, and had a most comfortable trip on the Jebba—one of the few voyages I have ever enjoyed; we were fortunate in our weather, our fellow-travellers, and in most of the amenities of boardship life, and I ‘lazed’ on deck, feeling very well satisfied with my first year in Northern Nigeria. I had ridden over three thousand miles, learnt a new language, made thousands of new friends in the animal and flower world, as well as valued human ones, I felt as if I had ‘enlarged my borders’ mentally, and had certainly begun to know and love Africa with a deep affection that, I think, is never lost by those who once acquire it.

My husband was elected to the Hausa Scholarship at Cambridge, and we spent a truly delightful May Term there, which passed only too quickly in the cordial friendship of charming cultured people, and among the lovely surroundings of the University.

CHAPTER V
Trekking North

The following September we turned our faces again towards Nigeria. The ‘Home’ climate had somewhat disgusted us, exemplified as it was by weeks of hopeless, unceasing, soaking rain in Scotland, and, but for the horrible wrench of parting again with our nearest and dearest, we prepared for our return in the most cheerful spirits.

My husband had been appointed to a new Province, eastward from Kano, named Katāgum, one which had come inside the scope of the Administration as a result of the Sokoto Expedition, and hitherto had not been ‘administered’ at all. The prospect of absolutely new ground, the North country, people of a high-class Mahomedan type, all appealed strongly to us both, especially as our way lay through Kano, of which we had all heard so much during the last six months.

To our responsibilities we added an irresistible little fox-terrier, acquiring him absurdly cheap from a dealer, on account of what the latter called a ‘marble’ in his eye—a sort of discoloured patch, which, although, of course, a blemish, did not appear to affect his sight, and was almost certainly the result of a blow. This fact we were able to deduce from subsequent events. Long before we reached Africa, we discovered that Binkie had an undying hatred for any one who had the temerity to wear blue trousers!

He commenced to act on this principle at once, by attempting to bite the guard of the train, made unfriendly overtures to the hall-porters at the hotel in Liverpool, although on the most affectionate terms with every one except the wearers of these obnoxious garments; on the landing-stage, in the intervals of caressing, and being caressed by a little girl, he made purposeful grabs at one and all of the blue-clothed porters, and reached the zenith of his reputation by biting two quarter-masters on board! It was a tiresome, and, incidentally, expensive habit, as we had no muzzle for him, and I only breathed freely on landing in Lokoja, where the majority of the inhabitants are guiltless of blue trousers. To do him credit, I must say he never touched a native, but I had to scan the garments of my callers anxiously, and warn Binkie accordingly!

On the way down the Coast we were given a ten days old bull terrier pup, a very highly-bred little person, who, having had the audacity to be born with a fawn-coloured patch, had thoroughly disgraced himself in his owner’s eyes. We had a difficult time rearing him, and nights in bed became ‘things hoped for, not seen!’

On arrival in Lokoja we found Mr. Wallace there, just starting up river to Zungeru, and he gave us a cordial invitation to visit him there, when we had made the necessary preparations in Lokoja collecting ‘the office furniture’ for Katāgum, and engaging carriers. While there we were burgled in a fashion so characteristic that it may be worth describing.

My husband was known—evidently—to have a large sum of money in silver; this he deposited, naturally, in the largest, heaviest, and therefore least removable of our boxes, but the enterprising burglar evidently thought that a tin uniform case (which happened to be padlocked) looked promising, and, during a tornado at night, carried it off!

We discovered our loss early next morning, and I was utterly dismayed, as its contents were mainly a new photographic outfit, chemicals, paper, etc. We ‘communicated with the police,’ but, meantime, some thirty carriers came to be enrolled, and, guided by previous experience, my husband informed them of the loss, expressed an opinion that the box was not far off, and, telling them to search the ‘bush,’ offered a reward of five shillings to the finder. The grass all round was over the men’s heads, and drenchingly wet, but they plunged gaily in, shouting and hunting, and in less than half an hour emerged triumphant, with the box and its contents, the latter practically ruined, having been scattered far and wide in the frantic but unavailing search for money. It must have been a ‘horrid sell’ for the thief; his only prize—at least, the only article missing—was the clockwork engine of a toy train, which I had brought out as a present for a small black friend! He had, luckily, quite overlooked a large envelope, containing stamps to the value of £25, the nucleus of a Katāgum post-office!

We left Lokoja, a large party of twelve or fourteen people, with various destinations, rather tightly packed on the Sarota, and, during a tornado, trying to shut a cabin window, my husband had a nasty accident, absolutely tearing the nail right out of one finger. It was not an auspicious moment for even a ‘partial disablement,’ and gave him a bad time at first, but healed splendidly, and, in spite of many gloomy prognostications, he succeeded in growing a new nail eventually!

We made our way up the Kaduna in a steel canoe, slept one night under a corrugated iron shed at Barijuko, and the next morning started ‘by train’ for Zungeru. It was an experience quite amusing for the first time; safely embarked in a roofed-in truck we rattled, bumped and swayed along the tiny line, with much shouting and vociferation; various passers-by, walking to Zungeru, placidly crossed the line in absent-minded fashion, under the nose of the crazy little engine, and had terrific abuse and chunks of coal hurled at them by the native engine driver. The dirt was choking, and the noise made speech impossible, so I clutched my bull-pup tightly, and watched with interest the flowers along the line—glowing yellow coreopsis, tall and slender, away down below were patches of vernonia purpurea, like a copper-coloured ‘button’ chrysanthemum, while the grass was thickly dotted with a tiny rose-coloured flower, one which grows in uttermost profusion there and in the North, but which I have never seen farther South.

Some days later we had an opportunity of really appreciating the tram-line, when we made an expedition to Wushishi on a pump trolley, and found it a really exhilarating and delightful method of travelling!

We got a warm welcome from Mr. Wallace, and spent a few days with him, enjoying his cordial hospitality and kindness while we made our final preparations for our start. Government House is, indeed, an ‘oasis in the desert’ to the weary traveller, luxuriously furnished with costly English furniture, soft carpets, bright chintzes and silk curtains, and fitted with electric light; it is all very charming, though, perhaps, not the very best preparation for thirty days in the bush!

My husband had brought out from Home a couple of mono-wheel carts, his own invention, and now had them put together preparatory to our long trek.

The cart, briefly, consisted of a single wheel, about three feet high, which revolved in the centre of a platform six feet by four, with ordinary wheel-barrow handles at either end. The platform was fixed below the wheel axle, and thus lowered the centre of gravity as much as possible, and lessened the inclination to fall over. While in England two ordinary carpenters in the workshop where the carts were built, had taken one with a load of about seven hundred pounds up and down streets with ease, and we were therefore delighted, and hoped that Nigerian transport would receive a helping hand thereby. Alas! we had not reckoned with the carrier, who, we fondly imagined, would prefer the lesser effort of trundling to carrying. He would have none of it! While the man behind had to raise the handles and start, the one in front, whose duty was only to pull and assist the balance, would also endeavour to lift! This, naturally, threw much more weight on the back handles, with the result that every few yards the whole thing would tumble over and have to be reloaded. Even placing a man on either side to prevent this happening made no appreciable difference, and, in desperation, we were finally obliged to engage extra carriers for the contents of the carts, and eventually marched into Zaria, the carts being triumphantly carried on the heads of two men!

At that time the path on leaving Zungeru, was simply villainous, beset with huge stones which even the one wheel could not avoid with the cleverest of steering, and this increased the local prejudice immensely. I really think that, had Fate decreed for us an ordinary, fairly level and well-patted down bush path, some nine inches wide, miles of which are to be found in some districts, and had our men been able to get accustomed to the novelty under such circumstances, the invention would certainly have proved a success and a great convenience at distant stations, where, at present, a tin of kerosene oil, for example, adds ten shillings or more to its original cost by the time it arrives, on account of the carrier’s pay. Later on, while we were detained at Kano, we tried to make a single cart out of the two, using both wheels, but with a very narrow track, about two feet wide, and this worked excellently until the dry wind of the Harmattan and the fierce sun heat through the day so ruined the wood-work that the wheels came to pieces, all the spokes falling out. Upon this we sorrowfully resigned the idea until a more favourable opportunity, and endured the daily irritation of seeing loads damaged by being rubbed off at each convenient tree by pack animals!

But this digression has taken me far ahead of my story, which must be resumed at Zungeru, where, one hot afternoon, on the 29th of October, we said good-bye to Mr. Wallace, and finally departed, while the bull-terrier pup shrieked aloud at being immured in a basket and treated as a ‘load’; we walked down to the river crossing, and were ferried over in a crazy canoe half full of water, which started my new riding-boots on their downward path! We afterwards discovered that one box had been planted comfortably in the same water, and, on opening it some days later, a sad scene of literal ‘blue ruin’ greeted our eyes—books, writing-paper, photographs, clothing, all hopelessly destroyed and mildewed—such is African travel!

We slept at Ganan Gabbas, a dirty stuffy little hamlet, and a sharp contrast to our quarters of the night before, but, happily, we were not in the least disposed to feel depressed over the absence of armchairs and soft carpets!

I was interested in watching the young wife of one of the native police among the escort, bathing her tiny baby (three months old) in the chill morning air before sunrise, the cold water being well smeared all over the little brown body, while the poor mite—naturally—yelled lustily! The bath finished, no drying operations being included, the mother scooped up a handful of water, closed her hand with the thumb pointing downwards, and, using the latter as a kind of spout, directed a stream of water into the baby’s mouth, slowly and steadily, totally disregarding loud gurgles, chokes and struggles of protest: meantime she was feeling and pressing the rapidly expanding little stomach, until convinced, I suppose, that its limit of capacity was reached. This treatment is meted out to all the babies, and is considered to be a great strengthening agent! This Spartan parent, having strapped the baby tightly to her back, and made ready for the start, stooped to lift a towering load of calabashes and other household goods, and doing so, put her shoulder out. She appeared to suffer a good deal of pain, but took it quite quietly, turning meekly to her husband, who, with one bare foot planted under the injured arm, gave a mighty pull, and with a snap the joint returned to its place. She thanked him prettily, adjusted the load on her head, and started off happily on her day’s march!

The march proved an interesting one, though very hot; the autumn is almost the best time of the year to ‘see the country’; in the farms the guinea-corn was just beginning to ripen and droop its massive plumes of grain, underfoot was a terribly stony path, but much of the road lay over hills, and we got magnificent views of miles upon miles of wooded hill and plain, unrolling themselves into the dim blue distance.

At Zaria we pitched our tent on the wide plain outside the great pile of mud buildings then used as the Residency. Every one was most kind to us, giving us every sort of assistance. Major Hasler, then commanding the Mounted Infantry at Zaria, specially delighted me by a present of a huge bunch of the most splendid zinnias I have ever seen—grown in the tiny garden round his quarters. He and a brother officer, I remember, ‘spread a banquet’ for us, as they expressed it, and a very merry party it was. Some anxiety was experienced during the afternoon as to the probable behaviour of a very special feature of the feast—a claret jelly—and diligent search was made for the coolest and breeziest spot in which to ‘set’ it. Our minds were relieved, however, by the triumphant announcement that it had ‘jelled’ admirably in plenty of time for dinner. We had quite beautiful table decorations of a lovely rose-coloured shrub, cunningly set in discarded cigarette tins, and one of our hosts, in his determination to do honour to the very first ‘Ladies’ dinner’ in Zaria, decided on most daring flights in his costume. But, alas! difficulties intervened, and after a little delay, he appeared—full of apologies—magnificent in regulation English evening dress, with a peerless glossy shirt-front, a tie tied to perfection—but no collar! This item was ‘lost, stolen or strayed,’ but our intrepid soldier friend did not for a moment allow such an obstacle to defeat his original plan, I am glad to say!

The road northward from Zaria was interesting, a regular market garden, miles upon miles of cultivation and farms; the grass was quite fine and short, utterly unlike the luxuriant growth down south, and tinged with a warm brownish red shade, which made a delicious ‘colour scheme,’ stretching away under great spreading trees into the far pearly blue haze.

We found Bebeji most interesting. On approaching it, the scene seemed familiar, and we felt convinced that we had seen it before, until we recollected the delicately executed pencil drawings illustrating Barth’s travels: here were the very same isolated tall palm trees, the flat-roofed massive buildings, high clay walls, and only the shortest and most meagre of herbage. We were given quarters in a couple of excellent cool lofty rooms, with a vaulted roof, beamed with wood and decorated high up with gaudy coloured earthenware plates of the commonest description, but much appreciated for this kind of mural decoration. We were destined to see them very often afterwards, and in any dwelling which has been hastily quitted by the occupants during war or under the influence of panic, almost invariably the plates are torn from the walls and carried off.

CHAPTER VI
Kano

I suppose no one can approach Kano, even to-day, without a certain thrill of excitement and interest. One’s thoughts involuntarily turn back to the days when it was all but inaccessible to white men, and yet the mere name of it was a kind of lodestar, irresistibly attracting travellers in the face of almost insuperable difficulties. One thinks of Clapperton, Lander and Barth journeying hither, and rather specially, perhaps, of Richard Oudney, who died within a few days’ march of the goal.

I believe that every member of our party, down to the most irresponsible ‘small boy,’ had something to express in the way of satisfaction and excitement when the long red wall began to appear above the horizon, and we approached the very place of all others which we too had so longed to reach and see for ourselves.

Outside the gate, the Resident, Dr. Cargill, met us and escorted us through the city. Our way did not lie through the markets and busiest thoroughfares, and, looking back, I think my first impression was the surprising area of open ground inside the walls, the vast stretches of cultivation and flourishing farms. This is intentional, and has been done for all time, so that in the event of a long siege, the inhabitants would be well supplied with food-stuffs, and practically independent of the farms outside the walls.

It took us an hour to pass through the city, and I fear I carried away only a misty impression of my first ride through Kano—blurred through my very eagerness to see, to absorb, to miss nothing, added to my delight at being there, and anxiety to make the most of my very special privilege in being the first white woman to enter there! I can only recall breathless heat, glaring sunshine on pink walls and white dusty ground, in sudden contrast to the warm, dark purple shadows, an endless stream of passers-by thronging to and from the various markets—hundreds of different types, diversely clothed, speaking different languages, but all ready with courteous salutations and friendly greetings—it made one’s eyes ache and brain whirl, and it was something of a relief to pass through the gloomy depths of the Nassarawa Gate, and ride up the grassy mile leading to the Residency, formerly the Emir’s summer palace. Later on I had opportunities of learning to know the great city better, but, living as we did, outside the city, and quite four miles from the markets and busy streets, each visit was somewhat of an expedition, and it was hard to get more than cursory glimpses of the life that was lived there, and the immense volume of trade going on daily.

In the year 1824 Clapperton recorded, in the simple, naïve fashion that characterizes the whole of his narrative, how, on approaching Kano, he attired himself in all the bravery of his naval uniform and rode into the town, and not a soul in the crowded markets turned a head to look at him, but, ‘all, intent on their own business, allowed me to pass without remark!’

So is Kano to-day; to the casual sight-seer or the curio-hunter it has little or nothing to offer, no beauties of architecture, no minarets, no palaces—the smallest Indian bazaar displays more gay colours, more material for the globe-trotter’s satisfaction. Kano is a centre of strenuous trade, there is no dallying and chattering and laughter, no sign of the ubiquitous hawker of trifling curios, who haunts an Indian bungalow, and even squats below the verandah of a Lokoja house to-day. The wares that have been brought across the Great Desert amid perils and hazards innumerable are not to be lightly disposed of, and the fierce-eyed swaggering Arabs do most of their bartering privately within the square, dark, low buildings, over much coffee and many cigarettes.

The great pulse of commerce, here, is as well concealed as is the throbbing heart in a motionless body, and gives as little sign of its presence to the casual passer-by, unless he looks keenly enough at the silent hurrying throng all intent on trading for a livelihood, not sauntering, idling, gossiping, like the denizens of an Eastern city. The sternness of the Desert influences the whole place and the people of it. Patient seeking in the various markets reveals an almost incredible collection and variety of wares: Turkish coffee, green tea, French sugar, delicious rare tobacco, silks and cloth, all can be bought at a price—an enormous price, too, be it said!

But it is Kano itself as a city, rather than as a commercial centre, which stands out in my memory distinct, unique, with a charm all its own, like nothing else in the world. Almost all those who saw the city for the first time that year, when it became the youngest-born of the Mother Government, expressed great disappointment with its appearance; I have heard it contemptuously stigmatized as a ‘glorified mud-heap,’ and it is often complained that the actually inhabited portions occupy so small a space inside the huge area of those massive walls. This, to my mind, constitutes one of the city’s greatest fascinations. There is such infinite breadth and restfulness about those vast stretches of short, crisp turf, surrounding the streets and alleys and humming markets; such a wonderful peace and dignity about those two astonishing, jagged, flat-topped hills, ‘Kazauri’ and ‘Dala,’ standing up abruptly in the middle of the plain, like tireless mighty sentinels, watching ever, in every direction, over the distant line of serrated pinkish wall.

A Kano Street Scene. ([p. 75])

A Kano Mounted Messenger. ([p. 81])

This wall itself is an object lesson to any one who grumbles at the quality of Kano’s architecture. It is fifteen miles in circumference, forty feet high, and wide enough to drive a motor-car round the inside terrace, without much danger to life or limb: at the base it is not much less than eighty feet wide. There are two deep ditches set moat-like outside the wall; from these all the material for the huge fortification has been taken. How many weary days of ceaseless patient labour, how many pairs of industrious hands have gathered that incredible mass of clay, handful by handful, carried it in miserable little grass baskets and calabashes, piled up the walls and gates inch by inch, till Kano became the impregnable fortress of the Western Soudan—why, the very thought is stupendous!

Remember, these simple folks have no tools, save one roughly fashioned implement, shaped like a pickaxe, that can do no more than loosen the soil—beyond this, nothing but ten slim, brown fingers, and that magnificent disregard for time which pervades Africa and makes such marvels possible. As an achievement, I think this plain, loop-holed clay wall compares favourably with any of the glorious monuments and fairy palaces of Indian fame.

The gates—thirteen in number—are on the same scale, massive solid square towers, with a narrow passage and various shadowy recesses. The slaves of Kano in the early days must have been as the sand of the sea, for, inside the city, the buildings are on the same plan and of the same material. In Africa, it is only to the white man that Nature shows a brazen pitiless face; to the child of the soil she is tenderly, munificently bountiful. The clay for building Kano was under their feet; they dug it out, and set up enormous dwellings, almost fortresses, masses of cool dark halls, windowless except for slits high up near the vault of the roof, where the temperature never varies by ten degrees all the year round. And if by doing so they did leave great deep pits everywhere, which, in the rainy season, are filled with water, and even through the six months of deadly drought remain stagnant and smelling horribly—well, of course these are fearful evils from a sanitary point of view, and undeniably odoriferous, but that they add an additional charm can hardly be disputed, the foul surfaces hidden by a carpet of clustering water-lilies, and the softly sloping edges clothed with velvety green grass. There is one in particular, so large that it forms a fair-sized lakelet, once a place of grisly association, for it was formerly the custom to execute criminals on its banks: but now the utterly placid surface reflects, like a mirror, its surroundings—houses, palm-trees, the splendid, branching-horned cattle, sheep and goats cropping the smooth greensward around the brink, and the ceaseless va et vient of the passers-by. Slender, straight-featured Fulani girls come to fill their water-pots, balancing them on their heads with inimitable grace; the whole scene is faintly veiled and shrouded in the milky haze of the Harmattan, and the slow-rising aromatic smoke. Yes—it may spell malaria and miasma to some, but if any one can pass the ‘Jakko’ as it is called without drawing rein, I am sorry for him, for he has missed one of those special moments that come to us all, perhaps only once in a lifetime.

One particular evening, just before sunset, as we rode slowly across one of the great levels, sounds of trumpets and drums, mingled with occasional explosions of gunpowder, came drifting along to us, and presently his High and Mightiness, the Emir, came forth for his evening ride, having duly notified his intention beforehand to the Resident—a piece of deferential courtesy never omitted.

He was a fine specimen of the handsome Fulani, regular in features, full of keen intelligence, and extremely dignified. He wore tobe upon tobe, gowns ample in material, gorgeous in colouring, lavishly striped with crimson, gold and blue—French silks which have travelled from Tripoli, and decorated with silver Turkish embroidery. His ‘fulah’ or turban was immense and snowy-white, the folds drawn over his nose and chin, a necessary precaution against dust. He sat with ease and majesty on a proud-stepping camel, head and shoulders above the surging crowd, caparisoned and ornamented with leather, coloured red, blue, green and yellow—a thoroughly regal figure.

Six hundred horsemen or thereabouts accompanied this almost daily ride, all rushing, galloping, saluting, waving arms and shouting, horses rearing and flinging bloodstained foam around, maddened by the cruel iron bit, sharp spurs, and metal, shovel-shaped stirrups, dashing off into the great cloud of dust which followed them, enveloping the throng streaming after on foot, banging drums, blowing shrill blasts on trumpets six or eight feet long, and firing off fusilades from ancient flint-locks and muzzle-loaders! It was a curious spectacle, widely apart from the world of to-day, and one that might have stepped out of the Arabian Nights or the stirring days of Shah Jehan.

A Kano Caravan Donkey Driver. ([p. 88])

We watched them on their way, and rode slowly about the city, finding something new and fascinating at every turn, till the scarlet sun dropped behind the far-off wall, and the rugged side of Kazauri and Dala turned rosy-red, indeed the whole city glowed suddenly pink, and the heavy smoke wreaths twined in sapphire blue curves in the rapidly cooling atmosphere. It was obviously time to go home; the Emir was back in his palace, and only a few straggling horsemen and a cloud of dust marked where he had passed; the mu’ezzins were already calling in all directions from the summit of the Mosques, ‘Allahu akbar! Allahu akbar!’ and the faithful were wending their way to evening prayer. Reluctantly we turned our horses’ heads, passed through the Nassarawa Gate, gloomy and dark in the fading light, cantered up the wide sandy road to the Residency, in the swiftly falling darkness of the African night, and were suddenly jerked back into civilization and modernity, to the dusty parade-ground, English voices, and joyful leaping fox-terriers!

The Residency itself, our home for the time being, consisted of a very large compound, surrounded by a high wall and entered by the usual recessed gatehouse. Inside the courtyard were several massive buildings, one the first two-storeyed native houses I had seen. They were great vaulted apartments, cool and dim, eminently suited to African royalty, but as dwellings for English folk, more than a trifle gloomy. However, we found our spacious mansion (extremely like a crypt!) was speedily and easily brightened by the introduction of clean matting, a few cheerful-tinted cloths, and quantities of sketches and pictures on the sombre brown walls. The upper storey was reached by a solid staircase of clay, and comprised a fine large room with plenty of light and air, commanding a splendid view over the imprisoning compound wall.

Outside were the hospital buildings, the barracks where the detachment of the N.N.R. was quartered, and, beyond, the Mounted Infantry Lines and officers’ quarters, all forming a sort of semicircle round the parade-ground, where I used to sit and watch many an exciting game of polo, rendered more eventful by sundry rather alarming obstacles on the ground itself, in the shape of holes and tree-stumps. There was, in particular, a cotton tree, in the buttresses of which the ball lodged itself with malignant and unerring precision; the process of hooking it out looked so extraordinary to an observer, that one might almost wonder ‘what the game was!’

I tried, as usual, to make a garden, but it was up-hill work—every scrap of earth had to be carried in from outside the compound, sheep and donkeys from the caravans regularly smashed the frail fence, and trampled on the beds, hordes of lizards nipped the head off each seedling as it appeared, and, the month being December, the middle of the dry season, my efforts were utterly defeated.

I suppose there was not ‘much to do’ as a matter of fact, but the daily stream of caravans, pausing to pay their toll, were an unfailing interest; we were a fairly large community, amongst whom were some old friends of Indian days, the cool hours were filled with polo, and the horses of the Mounted Infantry proved a continual point of attraction for an evening stroll, every one was sociably inclined, and we all gave dinner-parties according to our several abilities. We had even a patient in hospital to concern ourselves about—he gave us plenty of food for thought for a time, but, I am glad to say, recovered absolutely, and has probably completely forgotten the many evenings when he lay, weak and helpless, in the dropping twilight, watching the flying figures in the dust outside, and listening to the cheerful shouts as the last ‘chukker’ came to an end. I hope he has, for they must have been long weary hours.

We were very happy at Kano, and sincerely sorry when the time came for us to pack up again and start on the last stage of our journey North.

CHAPTER VII
Katāgum and Hadeija, and Back

On December, 15 we actually left Kano. Trials and tribulations had already been our share in more than generous measure, over the collection of animals for transport, to replace the carriers who had brought our belongings so far. The donkeys were difficult to obtain and wretchedly small, and the problem of tying up miscellaneous luggage into ‘loads’ was the hardest we had yet encountered.

It sounds so simple, but I have never met any single traveller in this country who, having once endured the ordeal—I can call it nothing else—of ‘animal transport,’ ever willingly repeated the experience! And indeed it is, or should be, apparent to the least observant that the caravan transport is one thing, and an Englishman’s luggage is another. I have watched hundreds of times the arrival of caravans at their camp for the night: the weight of the loads (salt, potash, kolas, cloth, etc.) is regulated to an ounce, each one is packed in exact similarity to its fellow in size and shape, so that the two form a perfectly equally balanced burden, which never slips, falls, nor worries the donkey; moreover, once packed, so they remain, the tremendous web of string, knotted and turned, twisted and knotted again, holds good for the entire journey. On arrival, the two loads are simply lifted off the donkey’s back, deposited on the ground and the leferu on which they rest, laid beside them. In the morning, the pillow is replaced, and the same loads laid on it—the whole process taking less than five minutes.

Now observe the unfortunate European traveller! He will naturally look round, as far as he can, for loads of an equal size, and, with luck, will discover a couple of similar uniform cases. But who can guarantee that the contents of each weigh exactly the same amount? Indeed, are there any two boxes among his ‘kit’ that do? With muscular carriers, six or even ten pounds more or less make little difference; here, it means that the heavier box over-balances the other, drags the pillow, and incites the donkey to quietly scrape against the nearest tree, relieving himself of the whole thing—small blame to him!—and the crash of falling loads is a sound only too familiar to any one who has travelled in this way.

The wayfarer next hunts round among his possessions, and wonders how he is to unite any two of a folding bath, a camp chair, a Lord’s lantern, a tent and an open box of cooking pots, into equal-sized and shaped loads. The answer may, and should be, arrived at without any of the mental strain usually devoted to it, for it is quite simple—it cannot be done!

The wretched little animals are small and weakly at the best, and, since even in the caravans, with short marches and the ‘perfect’ load, they acquire terrible sore backs, the employment of them with ill-balanced odd-shaped burdens is simply gross cruelty. I shudder now when I remember our donkeys’ backs, washed, dressed and cared for as they were, with the utmost tenderness. Another serious drawback is that they travel far more slowly than carriers; indeed, the caravans hardly ever do more than eight or ten miles a day, and the ‘trek ox’ proceeds even more leisurely! Unless each animal has its own driver, the accidents are incessant, and the delay maddening, for what can be done by the driver of five, when one donkey casts its loads and skips off into the bush? Is he to leave the remainder of his charge, knowing as he does, for a certainty, that those he leaves will immediately do likewise? Having captured the runaway, how is he, unaided, to get two awkward sixty-pound loads into their former position? It means that the traveller, his servants, escort and staff are all compelled to crawl at the rate of two-and-a-half miles an hour, with probably twenty miles to cover before water can be reached. Many and many a grilling half-hour have we both spent in this agreeable occupation; personally I preferred catching the donkeys, in spite of the heat, to adjusting my battered belongings on their shrinking backs! I can safely say we had more of our possessions lost and destroyed during our journey to Katāgum and back, than we have lost in the whole of our five years out in Africa!

On the return journey the pack oxen were our greatest trial; they had an inveterate habit of lying down, loads and all, in any shallow river they crossed, and once a pack ox lies down ‘all the king’s horses and all the king’s men’ will not move him an inch until he has recovered from his fatigue. One of our largest and best defeated us in this fashion in a village, and no method we could devise, including the whole strength of the village, and even, in despair, a flicker of fire just under his nose, had the slightest effect, the latter device merely producing a faint smell of scorch, so horrible in its suggestion that we flew to stamp it out, and hurriedly sold the delinquent to the villagers, who, seeing us at a distinct disadvantage in the matter, made an uncommonly good bargain for themselves!

By ten o’clock on December 15 we had begun to get an inkling of what lay before us; the whole of the donkeys had straggled out of the compound, we said our last good-byes and followed them—only to find most of the loads scattered on the road, not fifty yards away, and the donkeys careering gladly back to their happy homes! Patience, patience, and yet more patience! There is really nothing else for it—fury only exhausts one, and does not catch the donkeys!

Eventually we got off, and were fairly started on the long white road, trending south-east, winding in and out on a dead level, among miles of farms and hamlets. Barth has remarked that ‘the Province of Kano may truly be called the garden of Central Africa,’ and to us it appeared marvellously fertile, especially at that season of the year, when every river-bed was dry, and the whole land waterless, save for an occasional well.

One evening we had rather an interesting experience: among our party we numbered a ‘political agent,’ Ganna by name, and a strict Mahomedan, an interpreter called Daniel, a Christian convert with more zeal than tact or knowledge, and a Senegalese soldier, Braima, who had become a fast friend of mine, marching always beside my pony, and giving me his opinions on things in general, in his queerly pronounced French, while he contentedly munched away at my kola-nuts which I scrupulously shared with him. He had served with the French troops in Dahomey, and his stories of their proceedings were most amusing, if slightly startling! His affection for us became so strong that, before we severed our connexion, he cheerfully offered to desert from the N.N.R. for my benefit, on condition that I would install him as ‘head boy,’ and was quite mournful when shown the impracticability of his suggestion!

In an idle moment, these three men had embarked on a theological discussion, and, like their enlightened and highly civilized white brethren in England, got so heated and furious in their argument that Ganna only averted bloodshed by a happy suggestion that they should all come to us and let us arbitrate.

Daniel had first say. He commenced by a sweeping denunciation of all Mahomedans, and, incidentally, such dogs of heathen as Senegalese and such like. Their hearts and consciences were of the blackest, he informed us; and drew vivid pictures of their final fate and destination. On being sharply pulled up, and told to confine himself to his own creed, he unctuously explained as follows: ‘Well, God is a kind of a scorpion. When man do bad, he turn up him tail—so—and bite him proper! If man do good, then God just lef (leave) him!’ Ganna’s creed was too well known to us to require explaining at length, and the soldier added little to the discussion except furious indignation against Daniel for having stigmatized him as a dog and a heathen. His own ‘views’ were ill-defined, I fancy, except for a strong sense of personal loyalty and affection, and a fatal passion for a row of any kind!

We then set to work to place before them all Christianity pure and simple, untainted by creed or dogma, the plain doctrine of one God and Father of all, Christian and Mahomedan, black and white, and every living creature, whether known as ‘Allah’, ‘God,’ or ‘Le Bon Dieu.’ They seemed curiously astonished at such a pronouncement, Ganna receiving it with deep-voiced ‘Gaskia ne! Gaskia ne! Mahad Allah!’ (True, true, thank God!) Braima, staring into the fire and grunting, ‘C’est ça!’ at intervals; while Daniel sniffed suspiciously and with some contempt. He retired finally with his smug complacency quite unshaken, evidently considering our doctrines milk-and-water affairs compared with his own fiery ultimatums!

This little episode reminded my husband of another, which took place some years ago in Accra, when his ‘boy’, a Christian, having learned to read at school, delighted to read Bible stories aloud to the orderly, and on this occasion selected ‘Jonah and the Whale’ for his instruction. The orderly listened with round eyes and growing incredulity, and at the conclusion remarked emphatically: ‘That be dam lie!’ ‘Dam lie? You say that? Dis be Bible—if you say Bible be lie, you go hell one time!’ ‘Don’t care!’ said the orderly doggedly, ‘P’raps I go hell, I don’t know, but I no fit to believe that story—dam lie!’

The outraged little reader trotted off with his Bible under his arm, and wrath in his heart!

After a few days’ marching through rather uninteresting country, level, sandy and treeless, we climbed on to a sandy ridge which looked exactly as if it must have the sea behind it, and continued our way along the top for nine or ten miles, in deep sand, most fatiguing to men and ponies alike:

Toiling in immeasurable sand

O’er a weary, sultry land,

Far beneath a blazing vault.

There was a wonderful view on either side, miles and miles of plain, all sand, low bushes and scanty grass—a veritable sea of grey-green fading into pale blue in the far distance. When the eye became accustomed to the vast sweep of green, one discovered innumerable tiny hamlets and farms, all neatly fenced, and growing healthy crops of cotton and cassava, apparently in pure sand. It was a remarkable sight, and seemed to be the very edge of the Desert. I could image it being brilliantly beautiful in the rainy season, but in December, with everything enveloped in a dismal hot grey-drab mist, the scene was depressing and gloomy to a degree. Far apart were isolated wells, some presenting quite a Biblical appearance, with the waiting herds and flocks, and white-robed figures.

As we entered the Katāgum Province, the country changed to light woodland, a great relief, and pleasant to march through, had it not been for the truly terrible thorns. The trees were mostly mimosa and camel-thorn in full blossom, the sickly-sweet scent of which is most unpleasant and powerful. The last march into Katāgum was like entering a new country, as rich and fertile as the last had been barren and dreary.

We arrived on Christmas Eve, and felt great satisfaction at not being obliged to spend Christmas Day on the road. The Acting Resident was waiting to welcome us, and we took possession of a ‘house’ of grass matting, built round an immense Kuka tree, the trunk of which formed one entire side. It was very spacious and really exceedingly comfortable but for the presence of some highly objectionable large black ants, the smell of which, should they be disturbed or crushed accidentally, was so truly awful as to drive us all—dogs included—out into the open air to recover! We had some really cold nights, when the temperature dropped to 54°, and regularly, each morning, a strong chilly wind would spring up about seven, and last till ten o’clock, when it sank away quite suddenly, and usually some extremely hot hours followed.

From our doorway we could look for miles around, over a plain of waving grass, dotted with palm trees, mainly the Egyptian Doum palm with its curious bifurcations. The town was about a mile from our settlement, and the river wound away to the south-west, bordered with brilliant green patches of wheat and onions. Game of all kinds was very plentiful at that time; we could always see the deer roaming fearlessly about, and, evening after evening, we used to ride out in different directions, and had capital sport.

My own small occupations were of quite a different nature from my usual hobbies; gardening at this season of the year was, of course, out of the question, but we had succeeded in conveying a few Black Minorca fowls from England, and they behaved splendidly, laying well all the time—even on the march, every day, we found one or two eggs in the basket! The care of a farm-yard was quite a novelty to me. I found it a fascinating occupation—one that grows upon one, too. We also revelled in rich milk, and every morning I amused myself by making butter in a small plunge churn, which I had brought with me. It was very excellent butter, and I was equally proud of my cream cheeses! But my efforts to manage cows, calves, and herdsmen after the manner of an English dairy, were a dismal failure, and I gave them up, submitting meekly, but much against my will, to the ‘custom of the country!’

The Katāgum people were specially pleasant to deal with: half Fulani, half Beri-beri,—a combination which seems to make for unusual intelligence, coupled with admirable spirit and innate courtesy. They made friends at once, and the Sariki and his immediate followers were my almost daily visitors. On one of these visits, with a sort of shy reproach he touched the skirt of my coloured linen frock, and asked gently why, when I came to his house to see him, I did not wear pretty clothes like that—his people only saw me in a black gown (my habit!) After that I had to sacrifice comfort to friendship, and be careful to ride into the town in my lightest muslin!

On another occasion, the Sariki explained to me that, as I had evidently been ‘sent’ to them as a special mark of favour, it was quite necessary for them to know my name;—what should they call me? ‘A man’s name,’ I remarked, ‘is given to him by his friends. Give me a name yourselves,’ After cogitating in whispers, the old man said, smiling, that they would in future know me as ‘Uwāmu’ (Our Mother), and so I received my ‘country’ name, one that has stuck to me ever since, and by which I am known to all my dark-skinned friends throughout Nigeria. I am always proud of it, for though, at the time, I felt inclined to smile at being so addressed by men old enough to be my father, the title is recognized to be the highest expression of respect and affection that the African man can offer to a woman.

We were presented with a pair of tame marabouts, but their tameness was a doubtful quantity; and though it was amusing enough to see them dancing and playing about in the sunshine, their temper was not of the best, and they attacked every one who approached the house, snapping their formidable beaks angrily. The poor dogs were in absolute terror of them, and would warily wait their opportunity outside, till the marabouts’ attention was distracted, when a white streak of fox-terrier would fly in, only just escaping the furious beating of wings and clapping of beaks! They were so tiresome that we parted with them, and replaced them by a baby ostrich, which we bought for a sovereign: a most attractive little person, about the size of a duck, a mere ball of soft, mouse-coloured fluff, with beautiful velvety black eyes, and long eyelashes! It had never occurred to me before, that ostriches had eyelashes! His diet consisted mainly of chopped-up onions and bran, though he fulfilled the traditions of his race—and alarmed me horribly—by swallowing all kinds of weird things. I have seen him devour with relish all the pieces of a broken glass bangle; and any odd bits of china, stone, or metal appeared to be equally tasty morsels. He became very tame at once, and would wander about freely, and sometimes stand beside me for an hour at a time, gently nipping at my sleeve or slippers.

Life in this rural retreat, however, did not last long, and the end of January found us under orders to return to Zungeru, and, very sadly, packing once more. We started, after infinite difficulty, as usual over transport, which delayed us so long eventually that the sun was uncomfortably high before we said our farewells and rode away from Katāgum. We had a guide to set us on the road to Murmur, a different route from that by which we had reached Katāgum, and he either misled us, or was ignorant himself, for, after his last asseveration of ‘Oh! it is quite near now!’ and subsequent departure, we marched for hours, losing the almost imperceptible path, finding it again, after collecting our straggling party—a matter of some difficulty—all thirsty, tired and grumbling, calling down Heaven’s vengeance on the perfidious guide, and eventually reached Murmur after sunset.

It was a curious coincidence that we found ourselves on the spot where Richard Oudney died, exactly eighty years before (January, 1824), striving, in spite of desperate illness, to reach Kano, in company with Clapperton. The latter describes the sad events—Oudney’s determination to make a further effort, insisting on resuming the journey, for which he was quite unfit, ministering to the needs of the natives with what was absolutely his last flicker of strength, then reluctantly giving up the impossible, ‘retiring into his tent’ and lying down to die. There, Clapperton buried his beloved friend, and we were deeply interested in the site of his resting-place. The village people were quite touchingly surprised and delighted when we repeated the story to them; it was obviously a familiar one. The Sariki’s father had been a boy at the time, but such a remarkable event was not likely to be forgotten, and they started, as one man, to conduct us to the grave. It may be remembered that Clapperton gives minute details of its position, which accorded exactly with the spot to which we were led, leaving no possible doubt of its accuracy. The ‘great tree’ had fallen, and the tomb, originally a massive erection of clay, had been worn down by rain to an insignificant mound, round which we planted a circle of seeds of the fragrant white acacia, or marengo, in the earnest hope that they might grow and stand, for many years, a memorial to the honour of that brave unselfish soul.

At Murmur, a grave difficulty presented itself. The people told us we were off the main road altogether, the wells were almost dry, and we could not hope to find enough water for our party and animals between there and Kano, save on the regular caravan road, joining which necessitated our turning north and marching to Hadeija, a large town twenty miles north of Katāgum. It was not a matter to be lightly decided, adding even twenty-five miles to a march as long as ours; yet, the responsibility of taking a large party of men and animals through a waterless district was one from which most people would shrink, so we assembled the whole party, explained the situation, and frankly consulted them. They unanimously voted for the extra march to Hadeija, knowing, I suppose, better than we did, the utter impossibility of obtaining sufficient food and water anywhere ‘off the line;’ and probably influenced by the fact that the carriers from Katāgum bolted in the night, giving as their reason for so doing their determination not to ‘die of thirst.’

The decision relieved us of an immense anxiety, and we started cheerfully for Hadeija, sleeping that night at a tiny hamlet, where we were met and welcomed by the Emir’s messengers.

The following morning we reached Hadeija, and the scene, on our approach to the town, was one that I shall never forget. There was the vast extent of rose-red wall, swarming with dark figures, the river flowing between us and the town, and, on the far bank,—a space of nearly half a mile—a dense mass of people watching with intense interest and expectancy. They stood, an absolutely silent, swaying crowd, as we picked our way down the steep bank, crossed the shallow river, and scrambled our ponies up the other side. There we saw a pathway in the crowd kept by troops—positively cavalry, four or five hundred of them,—drawn up in two double lines, rigid and motionless in their saddles, the horses loaded with jingling brass armour, heavy breast-plates and head-pieces, neighing, squealing and kicking, but forced to stand comparatively still, merely pawing the ground and tossing foam from their tortured mouths; stirrup touching stirrup with a military precision that would not have disgraced any regiment of British cavalry. The soldiers were fine big men, splendidly turned out, and sat like living statues, but for the bright, restless black eyes, between the folds of white cloth litham, following our every movement. I doubt, though, whether any one there could have been half as much interested in us, as I was myself at seeing this spectacle of truly barbaric African splendour, riding behind my husband, feeling very small, travel-stained and dusty, amid so much brilliance and colour! It seemed to take one back centuries in the world’s civilization, and, with a gasp, came the realization that we had stepped into a world where time had stood still, and the ages passed over without leaving a mark!

At the end of the long line of horsemen was a little group of the chief office-holders, surrounding their Emir, who, as we dismounted, approached to greet us. He was a large, powerfully-built man, with the kindliest of faces, and the gentlest voice I have ever heard; his quiet tones, almost a whisper, veiling an authority, the response to which, in its instant obedience and child-like submission, was quite startling.

His voluminous garments of brilliant green and white, and towering white rawani, or turban, were surmounted by a burnous of white cloth, the hood of which, edged with silk fringe, drawn over the tall head-dress and falling round his face, gave him a positively patriarchal expression of benevolence and kindliness. The courteous, dignified cordiality of our welcome was perfect, and, the ceremonial greetings over, we were escorted to the rest-camp prepared for us outside the city. Here, a regular little colony of grass houses had been built, large enough to accommodate a party twice the size of ours: water, wood and provisions were ready; not a comfort was lacking, not a detail had been overlooked. My friend, the Senegalese soldier, having, as he frankly said, no experience of such friendly visits while he served in the French army, harboured suspicions of an ambush and treachery, and displayed, at first, a fierce determination not to let us out of his sight;—suspicions which, however, were completely dissipated when he discovered the unbounded, lavish hospitality offered to him and his companions!

In the cool of the evening, we walked into the city, and were amazed at the solidity and immense size of the wall, the area inferior to Kano, but, in point of height and condition, greatly superior. The gateways were huge, and so cunningly arranged with rectangular approaches that no armed force could possibly rush them,—indeed, no more than three or four men at a time could cross the narrow bridges, and, were any attempt at defence being made inside these would probably not cross them alive. The gates themselves had been removed, in obedience to an order issued by my husband, while we were at Katāgum, and Hadeija, the impregnable, the unconquered, stood friendly, smiling, open to all approach,—surely a happy omen for the future for increased prosperity and uninterrupted progress, we thought,—a hope, alas! not destined to be fulfilled.

Inside the gate by which we entered was an extensive space of open ground and level turf, where the cattle were quietly grazing, and the people passing up and down; far away in the distance were the buildings, flushed in the sunset, overtopped by towering trees and clusters of feathery palms. It was a sore disappointment to have to turn away without exploring that unknown city, to turn my back on Hadeija, a mere passing traveller, knowing that the chances of my seeing it again were infinitesimal,—to me, it has always been the most poignant regret of these five years spent in Nigeria. I am thankful not to have known then, that so soon those peaceful streets would echo with war-cries, and bloodshed and death be dealt out with a just, though unsparing hand, for the sake of civilization and progress. I had just time to try to make a hurried pencil-sketch of the scene before me, and the gate. This, however, was rendered almost impossible by the friendly surging crowd, by that time assembled,—all longing to know what in the world I was doing, chattering, peeping, pressing forward—not mobbing, though—that delicate attention is reserved for highly civilized countries; in Africa it is ‘not done!’ So I gave up the attempt in amused despair, showed my pictures to as many of my new friends as I could reach, and shut up my sketch-book to take a last look at one of the most fascinating places of its kind that I have ever seen.

The next morning we were up early, teeth chattering, and shivering in the bitter chill of the winter dawn, in spite of a huge wood fire. The Emir had announced his intention of escorting us on our way, to a point seven miles from Hadeija, adding with emphasis, that, when the Sariki-n-Mussulmi passed through, he only accompanied him five miles! He clattered off, surrounded by his army of horsemen and an apparently unlimited crowd on foot, leaving us to digest the compliment, and drink our morning coffee over the fire.

We found them all assembled under a group of trees. As we dismounted, the horsemen formed up into a gigantic double circle, ourselves, the Emir, his head men, and a few of our own people in the centre. When the last farewells had been said, my husband asked that the Limam might offer prayers for our safe journey, and—perhaps—another meeting some day, a suggestion which evoked a deep murmur of satisfaction. The ‘cavalry’ dismounted and stood beside their horses, the Limam stood up, his towering white head-dress and earnest dark face turned to the morning sun, his solemn clear voice pouring out the prayer in sonorous Arabic, every word distinct in the great silence; thousands of heads and hands around followed every gesture, our own included, for, at that strange moment creeds seemed very far away, and the one Father of us all, to whom such earnest words were being addressed on our behalf, the sole reality. It was a sight, I suppose, such as few people have ever witnessed, and it made a very deep and lasting impression on us. I had a lump in my throat when, as I turned to mount my pony, the stately old Emir laid his slender brown hand, with a beautiful amber rosary twined among the fingers, on my arm, and said gently: ‘You will come back to us; surely God will send you back,’ And perhaps not the least remarkable incident was, when, as we turned our horses’ heads, our escort, those who had been most suspicious, most incredulous of our host’s good intentions, asked leave, to a man, to fall out and obtain the Limam’s blessing, kneeling humbly at his stirrup!

Bringing in Fire-wood. ([p. 103])

A Kano Doorway. ([p. 107])

The whole circumstances of our visit to Hadeija, compared with the stormy events which took place there two years later, are illustrative of a point, we have frequently noticed, on hearing accounts of the peaceful journeys of missionaries and sportsmen, and of the perfect hospitality and friendliness they have found everywhere: that it is one thing to travel independently through the unknown parts of Africa, and quite another to administrate them successfully, introducing, of necessity, unpopular measures, and restraining undesirable existing customs. One acquaintance of ours, travelling about in search of sport, has wandered all through the Munshi country, where the natives have proved themselves aggressive and inimical to a degree towards any effort to establish law and order. This is a fact, I think, commonly overlooked by those who, with insufficient knowledge of the immense difficulties confronting a Government in territories such as these, are inclined to condemn wholesale and belittle the necessity of punitive expeditions and display of force.

From Hadeija our march was perfectly ‘plain sailing,’ The Emir’s messenger went before us and smoothed away every possible difficulty, only leaving us on the border of the Kano Province.

One incident of the road which stands out in my memory was the ludicrous struggles of our old cook, Jim Dow, to become an expert horseman, and to fully enjoy the privilege of having a horse to ride. He had bought an extremely tall horse, attracted more by its utter mildness of disposition than by any other remarkable point of suitability. Having saddled up his depressed-looking steed, he, being a dumpy little individual, under five feet in height, could not possibly mount without assistance. This he indignantly spurned, and would solemnly lead the horse, till he discovered a likely-looking tree. The horse was placed conveniently under it, and the little man clumsily and slowly climbed into the lower branches, from which he hoped to drop gracefully into the saddle. But the sad steed invariably strolled off in an absent-minded fashion at the critical moment, leaving poor Jim Dow hanging painfully from a branch, and using blistering language in ‘Kru’! I have seen this manœuvre repeated four or five times on a march, and he was a never-failing source of amusement to the whole party!

We reached Kano on Sunday, the 7th of February, having decided to sleep the night before at a tiny village a few miles out, as one of our ponies had broken loose and could not be re-captured until late in the afternoon. This small mishap was extremely fortunate for us, as a matter of fact, as we afterwards heard that at the very hour when, had we not been delayed, we should have ridden up to the Residency gate at Kano, a curious and unpleasant scene was taking place there.

A native soldier had been confined in the guard-room on account of insolence and insubordination. While there, he coolly possessed himself of a rifle and a pouch full of ammunition, and darted out of the guard-room, the bewildering suddenness of his action apparently paralysing the guard for the moment. He rushed out on to the parade ground, shrieking vengeance on all ‘Batures’ (Englishmen), calling to them to come and be shot, brandishing his rifle,—evidently quite insane and ‘running amok.’ Taking careful aim, he shot dead five horses tethered in the shade, belonging to his officers, and his shooting was so straight that most natural reluctance was displayed by his comrades in the matter of his re-capture. He actually sent a bullet through the doorway of the hospital hut, possibly seeing some one moving there. Finally the unfortunate lunatic was shot down, having been successfully ‘stalked’ from behind trees and other cover. It was a nasty occurrence, and much relief was expressed at our non-appearance at such an awkward moment.

On arrival we found every one very sad and anxious about Captain Abadie, who was lying very ill. He did not improve during the two days we spent there, and, shortly after leaving, we heard, to our sorrow, of his death,—a loss to Nigeria and his friends which could never be over-estimated.

At Zaria we met many old friends, but stayed one night only, as we were anxious to lose no time in getting down country. It was wretched there then, in a tent, with a strong Harmattan blowing clouds of sand into our eyes, filling every crevice, and covering our food before we had time to eat it, even with the greatest expediency!

At Karshi we had the good fortune to meet Captain Robinson and Major Porter, going North. We had tea with them at their camp, outside the town, and in the evening they came and dined with us, only stipulating that they should be allowed to contribute to the feast; and I shall always remember the procession that preceded the arrival of our guests,—‘boys’ carrying chairs, lanterns, Lager beer in buckets of cold water, roast guinea-fowls, and a box of chocolates! We had a most cheery dinner, and sat talking into the small hours, and even managed to breakfast all together the next morning before going our several ways. It is one of the pleasantest of my many pleasant memories in this country,—the spontaneous friendly kindness of two complete strangers, as they were then, coming at a time when most needed, for our spirits were almost as low as our provisions, and the bull-terrier pup had distemper! I do not suppose the two people concerned realized then, or do now, what a difference they made in our outlook on life at that time,—if not, I make them a present of the information now!

On the 28th of February, we found ourselves once more in Zungeru. A vacant bungalow was lent to us, and we spent a few days there very comfortably, in spite of the excessive heat. We heard with dismay of the terrible disaster in the Bassa country, where Captain O’Riordan and Mr. Burney lost their lives. My husband received orders to take over the Kabba Province once again, and we started on the last stage of our long journey. The noisy little train rattled us back to Barijuko; we embarked in a steel canoe, and commenced to paddle and drift down the Kaduna. The river was very low, and we stuck continually on the sandbanks, when the polers all turned out into the water, not more than seven or eight inches deep, and literally dug out the canoe till she was once more afloat. We were overtaken the next day by a second canoe, containing Captain Wright (who had won a V.C. in the Kano Expedition) invalided, home, and three others. Each evening we ‘tied up’ in company, and had cheerful ‘sand-bank’ dinner-parties. It was very placid and delightful travelling; I suppose we were both rather tired, and, for the first time in my life, I found huge enjoyment in doing absolutely nothing, beyond watching the river banks and sunlit water.

At Mureji there was quite a gathering, and—a thing unknown—a collection of five ladies! Dr. and Mrs. Thompstone were there, on their way to Zungeru, and three Nursing Sisters, travelling up and down. We met some old friends, and were quite a gay party, but it was a sad day for me,—my beloved baby ostrich was suddenly taken ill, wandering about as usual, on the bank, and, in spite of the greatest kindness shown me by Dr. Miller of the C.M.S., who was on board, the poor little bird died in a few hours. It seemed piteous indeed, when he had travelled so far without a single mishap, and I was bitterly grieved at the loss.

It was, however, a great delight, under any circumstances, to see the Niger again; as the Corona sped down stream, every bush and rock seemed familiar, and to be welcoming us ‘home’ to Lokoja. We settled down in our former bungalow, and, in a few weeks, I could hardly believe that we had travelled all those hundreds of miles in the past six months. The much-talked-of North country had considerably disappointed us in its appearance; and, with the exception of Kano and Hadeija, I think I can safely say that neither of us has the least desire to see any part of it again.