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THE BOBO RAPIDS.
“The Sultan of the French greets you, the chief of the Sudan
greets you, etc. We come from Timbuktu. We passed peacefully
everywhere. We are now tired, the river is low, and in conformity with
the conventions you have made with the French we have come to
demand your hospitality that we may rest and repair the damage
done to our boats by the rocks. We also want a courier to go and tell
our relations at Bandiagara that we have arrived here safely. All we
need to support us during our stay will be paid for at prices agreed
on beforehand between us. Lastly, I wish to go and see Ibrahim
Galadjo, your friend and ours.”
“Impossible,” replied Modibo. “Galadjo is not now at his capital, he
is collecting a column; besides, you will not have time for the journey
to him.”
“Why not, pray?”
“Because you, like those who have preceded you, must not stop
here more than four or five days longer. That is the custom of the
country.”
If I still cherished any illusions this speech finally dispersed them.
The groups about the chief moreover left me in no doubt as to his
sentiments, or as to whom we had to thank for those sentiments.
The Toucouleurs grinned, and waved their muskets above their
heads in a hostile manner. Abdu alone tried to speak on our behalf,
but Modibo ordered him to be silent, and the cadi joined in the
chorus against us. A griot then began a song, the few words of which
I caught were certainly not in our praise. Everything seemed to be
going wrong.
What was I to do? As I had said, we were all tired out, the river
was half dried up, the boats were terribly knocked about. Still it was
not altogether impossible to go, for after leading the life of the
Wandering Jew for so long, a little more or less travelling could not
matter much. We might perhaps have managed to do another fifty
miles or so, and try to find rest in a more hospitable district, where
we could pass the rainy season not so very far from Bussa, which
was to be our final goal.
One thing decided me to act as I did, and I can at least claim that I
made up my mind quickly. I was determined to fulfil to the letter, with
true military obedience, the last instructions I had received before
starting. These were my instructions—
“Bamako de Saint-Louis, Number 5074. Received on November
23, at half-past four in the afternoon—Will arrange for you to receive
supplementary instructions at Say. In case unforeseen
circumstances prevent those instructions being there before your
arrival, wait for them.”
This, as will be observed, is clear and precise enough. Of course
such orders would not have been sent but for the ignorance in
France of the state of things at Say. They would otherwise have
been simply ridiculous. However, an order cannot be considered
binding unless he who gives that order understands exactly what will
be the position when he receives it, of the person to whom it is sent,
and who is expected to execute it.
Still those instructions might arrive; rarely had such a thing
happened in French colonial policy, but it was just possible that our
presence at Say was part of a plan of operations at the mouth of the
Niger or in Dahomey. I need hardly add that it turned out not to be
so, but I was quite justified in my idea that it might have been, and in
any case I had no right to conclude to the contrary.
So I decided in spite of everything and everybody to remain.
Oh, if we had but started a little earlier; if M. Grodet had not
stopped us and kept us in the Sudan as he did! If we could but have
joined the Decœur-Baud, or even the Toutée expedition at Say, how
different everything would have been!
If only the promised instructions had really been sent us, as they
could have been, had any one wanted to send them! If only a small
column either from Dahomey or from Bandiagara had, as it might so
easily have been, commissioned to bring us those instructions, I am
convinced that Amadu Saturu would at this moment be a fugitive like
Amadu Cheiku, and that the Niger districts near Say would be
purged from the presence of slave-dealers. For all these robbers of
men, who are as cowardly as they are cruel and dishonest, would
have fled at the first rumour of an advance of the French upon their
haunts.
It ought to have been otherwise, that is all. It is not the time for
recrimination, but I shall count myself fortunate if what happened to
me serves as an example to others, and prevents the sending out of
expeditions only to abandon them to their fate, without instructions,
in the heart of Africa. For, as a rule, these expeditions seem to be
completely forgotten until the news arrives that they have managed
to get back to civilized districts after a struggle more glorious than
fruitful of results, or that, as sometimes happens, all the white men
have perished somewhere amongst the blacks.
To decide to remain at Say was, however, one thing, to be able to
do so was another.
There were just twenty-nine of us, five white men and twenty-four
black, with three children, the servants of Bluzet, Father Hacquart
and Taburet, and the Toucouleur Suleyman, on whom, by the way,
we did not feel we could altogether rely, a small party truly against
the 500 warriors of Amadu and his Toucouleurs or Foutankés, as
they are often called, not to speak of the people of Say and all who
were more or less dependent on Modibo.
I sometimes play, as no doubt my readers do too, at the game
called poker.
We all know that skill consists in making your adversary believe
when you have a bad hand that you have a very good one. This is
what is known as bluff. To make up for my purse having sometimes
suffered in this American game, it put me up to a dodge or two in
politics, notably on the present occasion.
CANOES AT SAY.
STAY AT SAY
Our island was quite deserted by the natives, for though the
people of Talibia grew millet on it before our arrival, they would never
live on it, or even sleep on it for one night, for it had a very bad
reputation, and was supposed to be haunted by devils, horrible
devils, who took the form of big fantastic-looking monkeys, and after
sunset climbed upon the ant-hills and held a fiendish sabbat.
Without calling in the aid of the supernatural to account for it,
there is no doubt that people belated on the left bank were never
seen again. Perhaps they are taken captive by the robber
Djermankobes, or fall victims to lions or hyænas.
However that may be, the Talibia devils, as were those of Wuro
and Geba later, were propitious to us. All these spirits, whether of
Kolikoro, of Debo, or of Pontoise, are really cousins-german. Ours
were the spirits of the Niger, and the negroes explained our immunity
from their attacks by saying, “They can do nothing against an
expedition, the leader of which is the friend of Somanguru, the great
demon of Kolikoro, and who knows the river at its source, where it
comes out of the earth, where no one else has ever seen it.”
I imagine that since our departure the natives of Talibia have still
avoided the island. Our residence on it was not enough to
rehabilitate it, and probably now many rumours are current about the
spirit which haunts the ruins of our camp.
It was really a great thing to be on an island. We were safe there
from hyænas at least, and all we had to do was to put our camp in a
state of defence against the Toucouleurs and their friends.
The first fortification we put up was a moral one, for we baptized
our camp Fort Archinard, in token of our gratitude to the Colonel of
that name, and it was worth many an abattis. The name of Archinard
was in fact a kind of double fetich, for it gave confidence to our own
men, and it inspired the Toucouleurs with superstitious terror. In the
French Sudan there is not a marabout, a soldier, or a sofa of
Samory, not a talibé of Amadu, not a friend nor an enemy of the
French who does not retain deeply graven upon his memory the
name of Colonel Archinard, for the present General will always be
the Colonel in Africa, the great Colonel whom, according to tradition,
no village ever resisted for a whole day.
So we managed that the news of the baptism of our Camp should
be spread far and near, and passed on from mouth to mouth till it
reached the ear of Amadu himself. No doubt he had some bad
dreams in consequence.
This moral defence, however, required to be supplemented by a
material one. Two hundred and twenty by forty-three yards is not a
very wide area for thirty-five people to live in, but it is far too big a
space to have to defend efficiently.
We felt it would be prudent to restrict the camp, properly so called,
to the northern point of the island, and taking six termitaries as points
of support, we placed abattis between them. Everything was ready to
our hands, branches, logs, brushwood, thorns, etc. We cut down the
trees at the lower end of the island, which cleared our firing range,
though it also rather spoiled the look of the landscape. We levelled
the site of our camp, razed many of the ant-hills to the ground, and
mounted our two guns, one pointing up-stream, on a huge trunk
which seemed to have been placed where it was on purpose, which
commanded the bank almost as far as Say itself, whilst the other
was placed on a big trunk which we drove firmly into the ground, and
would keep the people on the banks down-stream in awe. At each
gun sentries were always on guard. Then the unfortunate Aube was
unloaded, patched up somehow, provided with sixteen oars, and
armed with the machine-gun belonging to the Davoust, all ready to
advance to the attack or the defence whether to Say or to Dunga.
In a word, the urgent preliminary work was rapidly accomplished
in a very few days, and then in comparative security we began
building what the natives call the tata, that is to say, an earthwork
such as surrounds sedentary villages, or a fortified redoubt serving
as the residence of a chief.
Even if you had not been brought up a mason, you would very
soon become one in the Sudan; at least you will learn to build as the
negroes do. There are neither stones, lime, nor sand, nothing but
water and more or less argillaceous soil. With that you must make
bricks, mortar, and the mixture for graining, if graining you mean to
have. The clay is kneaded with the feet, and when it is ready, what
are called tufas are made of it, that is to say, flat or cylindrical bricks,
which the mason or baré places horizontally between two layers of
mortar. The baré sits astride on the wall he is building and chants the
same tune over and over again, whilst his assistants silently pass up
the tufas to him. I have noticed that all over the world masons and
tile-makers are as light-hearted as birds.
Our best mason in this case was a big Sarracolais named Samba
Demba, who generally acted as groom to our bicycle Suzanne.
When he was at work on the wall it grew apace, and we too grew
gay as we saw it rise, for with it increased our sense of security.
When the building went on well, we felt that everything else would
go well too.
Our tata was a triangular wall, each of the three sides being from
about eleven to sixteen yards long. It was thick enough to protect us
from treacherous shots from old-fashioned rifles, and indeed also
from the quick-firing weapons which the English had sold some time
ago to our enemy Samory. At a height of about six feet and a half
some forty loopholes were made, distributed about equally over the
three sides of the triangle formed by our wall. Inside, the walls were
supported by buttresses about three feet thick, which served alike as
seats and places in which to store our ammunition. The building
seemed likely to last well unless it should be disintegrated and
washed away in a tornado some day; breaches will of course be
made in it, parts of it will fall, but I expect, for a long time hence, its
ruins will bear witness to the stay here of the French expedition, and
to our effective occupation of the site.
FORT ARCHINARD.