We are still following the valley along which we entered Kokoro. It keeps broadening, and we no longer have any hills southwards, on the right.
The road is one of the easiest, and as there are none of these endless river crossings, sometimes over wooden bridges three parts broken down, but more often by fords not always very fordable and in which the crocodiles are not at all rare, we have no material difficulty to contend with.
11th February. Early this morning, we came into the midst of cultivated fields, showing that a village is near. These fields would be fairly well kept up were not so much of them devastated by termites, which are terribly destructive.
These insects build mushroom shaped termitaries, sometimes the height of a man, and at the beginning of winter they leave them like winged ants. Then they infest the villages. But the people never lose a chance of amusing themselves. The appearance of these winged ants is the signal for feasts and nameless orgies. Fires are lighted, and on these the ants singe their wings. The women and children collect them and fry them in Ce butter. Then it's not enough to eat, the people must drink. So, when evening comes, the whole village is drunk.
Towards eight o'clock, we see something that tells us of this village. It is called Bama. Just as we are nearing it, we meet a procession of dou, traversing the lou-gans to drive away the evil spirits and pray for rain. These dou are in blouses adorned with sprigs of flax and palm fibre. Their heads are completely covered by flax bonnets with two holes for the eyes and surmounted by a crest in red wood or by the beak of a bird of prey.
They dance along, followed by loafers and boys whom they're never tired of beating with their sacred rods. Whenever they pass a hut, they gulp dolo (millet beer) or palm wine. That's as much as saying that after an hour of their promenade they are dead drunk.
Half an hour later, we arrive at Bama. With an hypocritical air, Tchoumouki tells Captain Marcenay that the natives are over tired, that they refuse to make another march, and that they want to stay at Bama all day. The Captain is not taken aback and, in spite of the warning signs which Tongane keeps making behind his comrade's back, he looks surprised and says that the request is needless, as he's already decided to make a long halt to-day. Tchoumouki goes away embarrassed, while Tongane lifts his arms to Heaven and expresses his indignation to Malik.
We take advantage of this unexpected halt to visit the village. This interests us, as it's so different from those we've seen so far.
To enter it we have first to get on the roof of a hut, and they take us from roof to roof, as far as that of the headman.
This headman is an old Negro with a flourishing moustache and looks like a former N.C.O. of the Tirailleurs. He smokes a long copper pipe, kept alight by an ugly little piccaninny.
He welcomes us very cordially, and offers us some dolo. Not to be outdone in politeness, we make him a few small gifts which overwhelm him with joy; then, these ceremonies performed, we stroll around like tourists.
In the square a travelling barber is working in the open air. Near him some boys, pedicures and manicures, aided by a pair of old scissors, gnaw at the fingers and toe nails. Four cowries from each client, that's the charge for their services, but they have to hand over the nail parings to their clients, who make haste to bury them piously in little holes. I enquire vainly, through St. Berain, who can make himself a little understood; we cannot learn the reason for this strange custom. (Evidently Florence had not read The Golden Bough, which explains that the intention is to keep the parings from being used to "cast a spell" on their owner!)
A few paces away a "doctor" is treating a patient according to the prescriptions of the Negro Codex. We look on from afar at the "consultation."
The invalid is emaciated, his eyes hollow and trembling with fever. The doctor makes him lie on the ground in the midst of a circle of onlookers; then, having bleached his face with moistened ash because in this country white is "magic," he places beside him a little statuette in roughly sculptured wood, the image of some benevolent god. Then, while emitting savage yells, he performs a grotesque dance round the patient. Then, having had the seat of the illness pointed out, he massages it gently; then suddenly, with a howl of joy, he pretends to pull out a fragment of bone which he has palmed in readiness. The invalid at once gets up and goes away, proclaiming that he is cured, a new proof of the truth of the aphorism that it is only faith that heals.
It wasn't that of our invalid strong enough? There's reason to suppose so, for the benefit he announced doesn't last long. That very evening our camp receives a visit from him. Having learned, from one or other of our Negroes that a toubah physician was with us, he comes to ask the help of the white witch doctor, because his black colleague hadn't succeeded in curing him.
After a short examination, Dr. Chatonnay simply gives him a dose of quinine. The patient does not stint his thanks, but as he goes off he shakes his head sceptically, like a man who doesn't think much of a remedy whose strength isn't reinforced by a magic incantation.
12th February. Today is "same thing" as yesterday, as the men of our escort say. It's even worse. We've so far made only one march, and we shan't do better tomorrow.
This morning we set out in good order.
Just as our column was getting under way, we see yesterday's patient running up to us. He is so much better that he wants to thank his benefactor once again. The doctor gives him a few packets of quinine, with advice on how to use them.
All goes well throughout the march. The pace is lively. Not a hindrance, not a complaint from the Negroes. It's too good.
At the hour for the halt, indeed, just as we're settling down, Tchoumouki comes up to Captain Marcenay and holds a discourse like yesterday's. The Captain replies that Tchoumouki is certainly right, that we shall not start again that night nor all tomorrow, but that then, after so long a rest, we shall not halt for the evening until we've covered at least twelve miles.
The Captain says this loudly, so that nobody can misunderstand him. The Negroes realize that in future things are going to be different. But the firm tones of the Captain seem to have impressed them. They say nothing and turn their backs on us while exchanging surreptitious glances.
Same day, eleven at night. This narrative is beginning to bore me.
This evening, about six, and this in broad daylight, we suddenly hear the same roaring noise which had first struck our ears near Kankan and then my own eardrums on the night of the Morilire incident.
Today, as before, this strange noise comes from the east. It is very faint, but loud enough for us not to mistake it. Moreover, I'm not the only one to hear it. The whole camp gazes skywards, and the Africans show signs of fear.
It is daylight, as I say, and yet we cannot see anything. Wherever we look, the sky is clear. Certainly a fairly lofty hill limits our view just to the east. I hasten towards its summit.
While I am climbing as fast as my legs can carry me, the strange sound increases gradually, then stops suddenly, and by the time I've reached the summit, nothing breaks the silence.
But if I can't hear anything I may be able to see. Before me stretches the plain which, so far as eye can reach, consists of that forest of overgrown grass which forms the bush. The whole stretch is deserted. In vain I strain my eyes, in vain I stare at the horizon. I can see nothing.
I stay there like a sentry until nightfall. Little by little the dark shadows cover the countryside, for the moon is entering its last quarter and so does not rise until late. It's no use to wait any longer. I go down.
But I'm not half way down when the noise comes again. Really, it's enough to drive one mad. It starts just as it had stopped, suddenly, then decreases gradually, as though it were travelling away eastwards. In a few minutes silence returns.
I complete the descent very thoughtful and go into my tent, where I jot down these few notes.
13th February. A day of rest. Everybody attends to his own affairs.
M. Barsac walks up and down. He seems perturbed.
r /> M. Poncin, under a large tree, is making notes, doubtless referring to his own duties. To judge by the movements of his pencil, he's making some sort of calculation. What calculation? I could ask him, but would he answer? Between ourselves, I'm beginning to fear he's dumb.
St. Berain. . . . Well, where's St. Berain got to? I suppose he's off somewhere tackling the fish.
Captain Marcenay is chatting with Mlle Mornas. Don't let's disturb them.
At the other end of the camp, Tongane is accompanying Malik. They, too, don't seem to find the time too long.
The native personnel is sleeping here and there, and except for the sentries the escort is doing the same.
As for myself, I spend a good part of the day finishing an article, aided by my notes.
The article finished and signed, I call Tchoumouki, dedicated to the service of the post. Tchoumouki does not reply. I ask a Tirailleur to go and look for him. Half an hour later, the man returns and says he cannot find him. I hunt for him with no more success. Tchoumouki has vanished and I must give up hoping to send off my article.
14th February. Today, something spectacular happens.
Towards eight, for we'd spent part of the morning looking for Tchoumouki, we are thinking of going off without him when, towards the west, and so towards Bama which we left two days ago, we see a large troop appearing in the distance.
Captain Marcenay sees it before I do, and gives the necessary orders. In the twinkling of any eye our escort are at their fighting stations.
These precautions are needless. We are not slow to recognize French uniforms, or at least those appropriate to this country; and, when the unknown troop is nearer we see that it consists of twenty regular soldiers of the Negro race, all mounted and armed with service rifles, and three Europeans, also on horseback two N.C.O.'s and a lieutenant wearing the uniform of the Colonial Infantry.
One of our sergeants is sent to meet the newcomers, who send one of their own on ahead. The two envoys exchange a few words; then the troop, which has halted during the discussion, resumes its march towards us.
It enters our camp, rifles slung, and the lieutenant in command comes up to Captain Marcenay. The following dialogue reaches my ears.
"Captain Marcenay?"
"Yes, Lieutenant. . . ."
"Lieutenant Lacour, of the 72nd Colonial Infantry, at present commanding a mounted detachment of Soudanese Volunteers. I have come from Bammako, Captain; and from beyond Sikasso, where I missed you by a a few days, I have been following you."
"What for?"
"Here is a despatch which will tell you, Captain."
Captain Marcenay takes the letter. As he reads it, I observe that his face exhibits mingled surprise and disappointment.
"Very good, Lieutenant. Let me inform M. Barsac and his companions. Then I shall be at your service."
Captain Marcenay takes the letter and comes over to us.
I have to advise you of some astounding news, Monsieur le Depute. I have to leave you."
"To leave us!"
That exclamation, truth forces me to say, was made by Mlle Mornas. I look at her. She has turned quite pale and is biting her hps. If I did not know the firmness of her character, I should swear she was going to cry.
We are all bowled over, except for M. Barsac, whose anger overpowers him.
"What's the meaning of this, Captain?" he asks.
"The meaning, Monsieur le Depute, is that I have formal orders to report to Timbuctoo."
"This is unthinkable!" cries M. Barsac, who seems deeply wounded.
"But it is so," replies the captain. "Please read this."
He hands M. Barsac the despatch which the lieutenant brought him. As the Chief of the Mission runs his eyes over it, he shows repeated signs of indignation; then he passes the letter to us so that we can be witnesses to its unceremonious nature.
I take care to be the last to have it, so that I can jot down a copy:
REPUBLIQUE FRANCAISE Gouvemement General Du Senegal Cercle De Bammako Le Colonel
Order to Captain Pierre Marcenay and to his detachment to report by forced marches to Segou-Sikoro and so by way of the Niger to Timbuctoo, where he will place himself under the command of the colonel commanding the district. The horses of Captain Marcenay's detachment will be left in the stables at Segou-Sikoro.
Lieutenant Lacour, of the 72nd Regiment of Colonial Infantry, commanding a mounted detachment of 20 Soudanese Volunteers, will take this order to Captain Marcenay, at Sikasso, and place himself in the service of M. le Depute Barsac, Chief of the Extra-parliamentary Mission of the Niger Bend (First Section), whom he will escort to his destination.
Colonel Commanding le Cercle de Bammako, Saint Auban
While I am feverishly copying this, M. Barsac goes on breathing out his bad temper.
"It's unspeakable!" he says. "To give us an escort of twenty strong . . . and just when we've run up against our greatest difficulties! . . . But this won't be the last of it. . . . The moment I get back to Paris, we shall see if the Chamber approves of one of its Members being treated so charmingly!"
"But meantime we have to obey." Captain Marcenay said, not even trying to conceal his distress.
M. Barsac takes the captain aside, but I have a reporter's ear and I can hear quite well.
"Captain, the order may not be genuine!" he suggests in low tones.
The captain starts. "Not genuine!" he repeats. "You need not think that, Monsieur le Depute. Unfortunately there's no doubt about it. The letter bears all the official seals. Besides I've served under Colonel Saint Auban, and I know his signature quite well."
Bad temper can excuse much, but I think M. Barsac is going too far. Fortunately Lieutenant Lacour has not heard him. He would not feel flattered.
M. Barsac has nothing to reply and keeps silence.
"Would you allow me, Monsieur le Depute, to introduce Lieutenant Lacour and then take my leave?"
M. Barsac having agreed, the introductions are made.
"Do you know, Lieutenant," M. Barsac asks him, "the reasons for the order you have brought?"
"Certainly, Monsieur le Depute," replies the lieutenant. "The Touareg Aouelimmeden are astir and they are threatening our lines. Hence the need to reinforce the garrison at Timbuctoo. The Colonel is using whatever comes to hand."
"What about us?" asks the chief of the Mission. "Is it prudent to cut our escort down to twenty men?"
Lieutenant Lacour smiles.
"There will be no difficulty about that," he assures him. "This region is absolutely quiet."
"That's not so certain," M. Barsac objects. "The Minister for the Colonies himself has reported to the tribune of the Chamber, and the Resident at Konakry has confirmed it, that the regions near the Niger are the scene of some very disquieting events?"
"That used to be true enough," replies Lieutenant Lacour, still smiling, "but there's no question of it now. That's ancient history."
"But we ourselves have found. . . ." M. Barsac insists, and he tells the lieutenant about our own adventures.
That does not seem to disturb him.
"But you must see," he replies, "That this unknown antagonist, who seems to preoccupy you beyond all reason, must be a very insignificant person after all. What! he wants, you say, to bar your route, and yet he couldn't think up any way of stopping you? . . . You can't be serious, Monsieur le Depute."
M. Barsac has nothing to say.
Captain Marcenay comes up. "Permit me, Monsieur le Depute, to take my leave," he says.
"What! So soon!" cries M. Barsac.
"I must," the captain replies. "My orders are formal. I must reach Segou-Sikoro and Timbuctoo without losing an hour."
"Then do so, Captain," M. Barsac agrees, holding out his hand, his feelings overcoming his anger, "and be sure you are taking all our good wishes with you. None of us will forget the time we have spent together, and I know I'm speaking for all of us when I say how fully we realize the vigilant protection and unfailing devo
tion you have shown."
"Thank you, Monsieur le Deputed" replies the captain; he also is deeply moved.
He takes farewell of each of us in turn, ending, as goes without saying, with Mlle Mornas. As might be supposed, I look at them out of the corner of my eye.
But I get little for my curiosity. Everything goes off the simplest thing in the world.
"Au revoir, Mademoiselle," says the captain.
"Au revoir, Captain," replies Mlle Mornas.
Nothing more. Nevertheless, for those who are in the secret, these few words, have a special significance. We realize that they are the equivalent of a mutual and formal promise.
Thus I understand the captain, whose face has regained its calm. He takes the hand which Mlle Mornas holds out to him, respectfully presses a kiss on it, goes away, leaps on his horse, and takes his place at the head of his detachment, which has meantime formed up.
A last salute in our direction, then he raises his sabre. The hundred men move off and break into a trot. Not without some distress, we follow them with our eyes. In a few minutes they are out of sight.
There we are alone with Lieutenant Lacour, his two N.C.O.'s and his twenty men, whose very existence we did not even suspect an hour ago. The episode has taken place so quickly we are quite stunned. Now we have to regain our calm.
I regain mine fairly quickly, and I look at our new bodyguard, so as to get to know them. Then something strange happens. At the first glance I throw over them, I feel a slight shiver, not unpleasant, my word, no for I suddenly get the definite impression that they seem to be the sort of people whom I would not like to find myself with at the corner of a wood.
CHAPTER X
THE NEW ESCORT
(From the notebook of Amedee Florence)
Same day, evening. No, I should not like to find myself with them at the corner of a wood, and yet here I am, or rather I'm with them in the middle of the bush, which is far worse. So the situation is charming. To know you're running into danger, but not what it is; to be always trying to guess what it is that is hiding from you; eye and ear always alert to ward off the blow you apprehend, without knowing whence it will come; nothing could be more "exciting." It's during such hours that one lives really intensively, and these sensations nicely supplant the pleasure of a coffee with cream on a Parisian terrace.