I hasten to answer his call, followed by Captain Marcenay and M. Barsac. We find him in a marsh, sunk to his middle in the mud.
When we've got him on to dry land: "How did you fall into that marsh or marigot, as they call it in this country?" I ask him.
"I slipped," he answered, spattering me with mud. I slipped while I was fishing."
"With a line?"
"Not a bit of it. By hand, my dear fellow." He shows us his colonial helmet wrapped in a fold of his jacket.
"Wait," he says, without giving me any other answer. I must unwrap my jacket carefully, or they'll escape."
"What do you mean, they?"
"Frogs."
While we were relaxing, he has been fishing for frogs. What an enthusiast!
"I congratulate you," M. Barsac says approvingly. "They make good eating, frogs. . . . But listen to them croaking, the ones you've caught. It's clear they don't want to be eatenl"
At this we return to the camp. St. Berain has a change of clothes and Morilire cooks his "catch." The table being laid, we eat with the gusto of those who have swallowed twelve miles on horseback by way of an appetiser.
It goes without saying that Mlle Mornas presides. She's really delicious. (I've said so before, I know, but I can't repeat it too often.) A dear simple child, pleasantly boyish, she quickly puts us at our ease.
"My uncle. . . ." (Then he's really her uncle? Is that it?)
"My uncle," she explains, "brought me up like a boy and he's made a man of me. Please forget my sex, and think of me only as one of yourselves."
This does not keep her, even as she speaks, from giving Captain Marcenay one of those half-smiles, which show as plain as a pike staff that, among this sort of boy, coquetry still has its place.
We take our coffee. After this, quietly stretched out in the long grass in the shade of the palm trees, we give ourselves up to the joys of the siesta.
We were, as I explained, to set out at five; but when it's time for the convoy to form up, we come up against a brick wall, if I may use so strong an expression.
In vain Morilire, when the time came, orders the men to get ready. To our great surprise they refuse, crying all at once that they haven't seen the moon, and that they can't go on because they haven't seen the moon!
We are bewildered, but our savant, M. Tassin, explains the mystery.
"I know just what it is," he tells us. "All the explorers have mentioned it in the records of their journeys. When the moon is new (this evening it is only two days old) the Negroes always say that's a bad sign. Nobody has seen the moon yet. The road won't be good for us'."
"loo! loo! ("Yes! yes!") comes the noisy approval of the muleteers and porters who are grouped round us, when Morilire has translated the words of the geographical doctor. "Karo! Karo!" ("The moon! The Moon!").
It seems certain that, if the satellite continues in its refusal to show itself, these blockheads will continue in their refusal to move off. And it's still day, and the sky is hidden.
Certainly, these gentlemen of colour had made up their minds, and perhaps we should be there yet if, a little before six, the pale crescent of the moon had not appeared between two clouds. The blacks utter cries of delight.
"Allah ma toula kende," they say, touching their foreheads with their right hands. "Karo koutaye." ("God has been good to us; we can see the new moon.")
At once the column sets off without difficulty.
But we have lost two hours, and the evening's march must be shortened accordingly.
About nine, we halt in the midst of the bush, and the tents are pitched. The country is not completely deserted, however. To the right of the footpath is a native hut, abandoned for some reason; on our left we can see another, but this seems to be inhabited.
Captain Marcenay looks into the former, and judging it fairly tolerable, suggests that Mlle Mornas should make it her home for the night. She accepts and vanishes into this unexpected hostelry.
Hardly has she gone ten minutes when we hear her calling loudly for help. We dash across and find her standing in front of the hut and pointing disgustedly to its floor.
"What's this?" she asks.
"This" consists of countless white maggots. They have come out of the earth and are writhing about in such numbers that the very soil seemed to be heaving.
"Just think, gentlemen," says Mlle Mornas, "how frightened I was when I felt their cold touch on my face, on my hands! I found them everywhere, even in my pockets! When I shook myself they kept falling out of my clothing. Ugh! The ugly beasts!"
M. de St. Berain comes up at that moment, and finds the suitable word without any trouble.
"Oh look," he exclaims, his face lighting up, "they are gentles!"
And indeed they must have been gentles, for he knows all about them, does M. de St. Berain.
Already he's bending down to get a supply of them.
"You no need for that," Tongane tells him. "There's plenty where we go. Them very bad, grow everywhere. No way kill them."
There's something that promises us some pleasant nights! But the natives, what do they do with these legions of maggots?
No doubt I was thinking out loud.
"Eat them, Mossoo," explains Tongane "Them nice!"
Mlle Mornas, not sharing the simple tastes of the inhabitants of this country, was simply going to move into one of the tents when Morilire tells her that a young Negress, the servant of a farmer of the same colour who's away just now, is offering her hospitality in a hut. This is quite clean and—unlikely as it seems—is furnished with a bedstead of European type.
"You give money," the guide adds. "This good!"
Mlle Mornas accepts the proffered hospitality and we escort her ceremonially to her new lodging. There the promised servant is waiting for us. She is standing near one of the trees. She is a girl of middling height, aged about fifteen, and not at all ugly. As she had no clothing except a simple leaf which plainly came neither from the Louvre nor from the Bon Marche but perhaps from the Magasin du Printemps as St. Berain cheerfully suggests, she looks like a fine statue in black marble.
At the moment, the statue is busy gathering something from the trees.
"She's gathering caterpillars; she'll clean them out and dry them and then— don't be surprised!—shell make them into sauce," explains Dr. Chatonnay, who seems to be well up in Negro cookery. "They are called Cetom-bo. They are the only sort fit for eating, and they're said to taste very pleasant."
"That true." Morilire" agrees. "Them good!"
Having seen us, the young Negress comes up.
"I," she tells Mlle Mornas, speaking to our great astonishment in almost perfect French, "I was brought up in a French school and I've been servant to a white lady, the wife of an officer. When I returned to my village, I was taken prisoner in a big battle. Know how to make bed like white lady. You quite happy."
While speaking, she gently takes Mlle Mornas by the hand and leads her into the hut.
We turn in, pleased that our comrade is certain of some comfort. But the time for sleep hasn't yet come, either for her or for us.
Indeed, half an hour has scarcely passed when Mlle Mornas again calls us to her help.
We dash over once more, and in the torchlight we see an unexpected sight.
The little black servant is stretched on the ground near the threshold of the hut. Her back is marked, zebra-fashion, with red weals, and the poor child is sobbing fit to break one's heart.
Before her, and protecting her with her body, Mlle Mornas, really superb when she loses her temper, is holding at bay a huge Negro who, a few steps away, is making horrible grimaces and who is still grasping a blood dappled stick. We ask for an explanation.
"Just think of it," Mlle Mornas tells us, "I had hardly gone to bed. Malik (the little Negress is called Malik) was fanning me and I was just dropping off. Then here comes this big brute, her master, coming home unexpectedly. As soon as he sees me he flies into a rage, drags the poor child out, and sta
rts beating her unmercifully to teach her to bring white people into his hut!"
"Pleasant mannersl" come from the thin lips of the jovial M. Baudrieres.
He's quite right, the jovial M. Baudrieres. But he goes astray when, taking advantage of the position, he puts on an oratorical pose and delivers this surprising statement:
"There you are then, gentlemen, there's these savage tribes whom you hope to turn into peace loving voters."
He plainly thinks he's in the Chamber.
M. Barsac starts as though a fly has stung him. He controls himself and answers dryly: "As though Frenchmen never beat their wives."
He's not far from wrong, either, M. Barsac.
Are we about to enjoy a battle of eloquence? No. M. Baudrieres not having replied, M. Barsac turns to the negro with the stick.
"The child is leaving you," he tells him. "We're taking her away with us."
But the Negro objects. The Negress is his slave. He's paid for her. Shall we waste time explaining that slavery has been abolished in French territory? He would never understand. It will take more than a day to reform their customs.
M. Barsac had found a better way. "I'll buy your slave," he says. "How much?"
Bravo, M. Barsac! That's a good idea! Seeing a chance of making a bargain, the Negro quietens down. He asks for a donkey, a gun, and fifty francs.
"Fifty blows with a stick," the captain replies. "Tha's all you deserve!"
They chaffer. At last the rascal parts with his servant for an old flint-lock, a piece of cloth, and twenty-five francs. It's really giving her away.
While the discussion proceeds, Mlle Mornas has lifted Malik to her feet and is dressing her wounds with Karite butter. The bargain made, she leads her to our camp, dresses her in a white blouse, and puts a few coins in her hand.
"Now," she says, "you're not a slave any longer. I set you free."
But Malik bursts into sobs. She says she is alone and she doesn't want to leave "so good a white lady/' She will be her chambermaid and will serve her faithfully until she dies. She weeps, she implores.
"Keep her, little girl," St. Berain puts in. "You'll certainly find her usefull. She'll render the thousand little services which a woman always needs, even when she's a man."
Hardly has Mlle Mornas agreed than she must feel like dying of envy. Malik, not knowing how to show her gratitude for St. Berain's intercession, flings her arms round his neck and kisses him on both cheeks. He tells me next day that he's never known anything more disagreeable. I need hardly add that Mlle Mornas does not wish to experience native hospitality a third time. We pitch a tent for her and nothing else disturbs our sleep.
That's our first day.
The others will no doubt resemble it. So I won't describe them in detail; unless anything else is said, these words will always be understood: Ab una disce omnes*
Amedee Florence.
*"As one, so all the others" A quotation from Virgil.
CHAPTER V
SECOND ARTICLE BY AMEDEE
FLORENCE
Amedee Florence's second article appeared in L'Expansion Francaise for the 18th January.
THE BARSAC MISSION
(By despatch from our Special Correspondent)
Daouheriko, 16th December. Since my last despatch written in the midst of the bush on the evening of our departure by the flickering light of a lantern, the journey has been pleasant, and hence it has no history.
The 2nd December we strike camp at five in the morning, and our column, now larger by a unit, or rather should I say by half a unit (for one white is worth two blacks?) gets on the march.
A donkey has been unloaded and its load shared out among the others, so that Malik can have it. Like the child she is, the little Negress seems to have forgotten her recent unhappiness. She does nothing but laugh. Happy nature!
Since then we have kept on our route, which is still good and easy. But for the colour of the people and the poverty stricken countryside, we might think we had never left France.
For the country is not attractive. The district we are crossing is flat, or at least has only slight depressions, with, here and there, some half hearted hills on the northern horizon. So far as eye can see, we can observe nothing but this stunted vegetation, a mixture of shrubs and grasses two or three yards high commonly called the bush.
Here and there is a clump of trees, thinned out by the fires which periodically devastate these savannahs during the dry season. Occasionally we pass some cultivated fields, the lougans, as the native word is, usually succeeded by some fairly tall trees. It is then we approach the villages.
They have absurd names, these villages: Fongoumbi, Manfourou, Kafou, Ouossou, etc. I give it up. Can't they call themselves Neuilly or Levallois like everybody else?
There's no need to say that the leader of the Mission goes into the most miserable villages and holds a palaver with its inhabitants.
Behind him, M. Baudrieres does not fail to make his counter enquiry.
The two draw, as might be supposed, conclusions diametrically opposed from what they see and hear, so much so that they return equally delighted. So everybody is happy. It's perfect
For the rest, we are traversing or following the rivers, also with unpronounceable names, and we pass from one valley to another almost without noticing it. That's not of breathtaking interest.
Wherever I look in my notes, I can find nothing worth while confiding to contemporary history until the 6th December. On that date M. de St. BeVain, who is rapidly becoming my friend, fancied that he ought to think up something for my amusement. And, I hope, for yours.
That evening we are camping near a village, a little less insignificant than the others, called OuoHa. At the proper time I go into my tent, with the legitimate aim of getting some sleep. There I find St Berain, undressed to his vest and pants; his outer garments are thrown about everywhere. The bed is made. At first sight it's clear he means to sleep in my tent. I pause at the entrance to watch what my unexpected guest is doing.
St. Berain doesn't seem surprised to see me. For that matter, he's never surprised. He is very busy and uneasy, ferreting everywhere, even in my kit bag, which he has opened and whose contents he has thrown on the ground. But he cannot find what he wants, and that annoys him. He turns towards me, and without seeming at all surprised at seeing me, he says in tones of the utmost conviction:
I hate absent minded people. It's disgusting."
I answer without blushing: "Disgusting! But what's happened to you, St. Berain?"
"Just imagine," he replies, "I can't lay my hand on my pyjamas. I bet that wretch Tchoumouki has left them behind at our last halt. That's cheerful!"
I suggest: "So long as they're not in your own kit-bag?"
In my. ...
"This one belongs to me, my dear fellow, just as this hospitable tent and that virtuous couch belongs to me!"
St. Berain rolls his startled eyes. He suddenly realizes his mistake, hastily picks up his scattered garments and dashes out as if he'd got a horde of cannibals at his heels. I just sink on to my bed and curl up on it.
He's splendid!
Next day, the 7th December, we have just sat at table after our morning march when we see some Negroes who seem to be watching us. Captain Marcenay orders two men to go after them. They clear off, only to reappear a little later.
"Chase away the native, and he gallops back," are words thought appropriate by Dr. Chatonnay (No doubt with reference to the similar proverb about driving away nature!), who has a habit of citing relevant, or more often irrelevant lines, which have usually no relation with the subject. But everyone to his taste.
Morilire, sent out to investigate, tells us that these blacks, about ten in number, are traders and witchdoctors who have no hostile intentions and simply want to sell us their produce and to entertain us.
"Lock up the silver!" M. Barsac suggests humorously, "and show them into the dining room!"
So the blacks are shown in, each more ugly
and more sordid than the others. Among them are craftsmen, masters of thirty-six trades, makers of pottery, trinkets, baskets, objects in wood or iron; and vendors of weapons, fabrics and especially Kola nuts, of which we lay in an ample store. We realize the value of that fruit, which Dr. Chatonnay calls food of thrift, and were very glad to get so much of it in return for a little salt. In the lands we are traversing, salt is scarce; one might almost say, priceless. The further we get from the coast the more valuable it is, so we've brought several bars.
We then summon the witch-doctors and ask them to sing their finest song in honour of our gracious company.
These troubadours from Negro-land are two in number. The first holds a guitar. What a guitar! . . . Imagine a calabash crossed lengthwise by three shoots of bamboo each provided with a catgut string. The second witch-doctor, his eyes afflicted by the ophthalmia which is common here, is armed with a sort of flute, a reed with a small calabash fixed at each end.
The concert begins. The second witch-doctor, clad only in a sort of girdle three inches wide passing between his legs, begins to dance, while his companion is more decently covered by a long blouse, of a repulsive dirtiness however, sits down, twangs his guitar, and utters some guttural cries which, I think, are meant to be a song addressed to the sun, to the moon, to the stars, and to Mlle Mornas.
The contortions of the one, the howlings of the other, the strange noises which the two virtuosi draw from their instruments, are sufficient to excite our muleteers. They leave their millet, their rice, and their maize, and organize a ballet which, to put it mildly, is out of the ordinary.
Carried away by their example, we seize the saucepans and cooking-pots, and hammer on them with spoons and forks; M. de St. Berain breaks a plate, uses the halves as castanets, and begins a weird sort of fandango with your humble servant as his partner.
M. Barsac (dare I mention this?) M. Barsac himself, throwing aside all restraint, makes a turban out of a towel, and while M. Baudrieres, the honourable Deputy from the North, veils his face, the honourable Deputy from the Midi performs a dance of an ultra-meridional abandon.