Captain von Hirschfeld, who, throughout this and our subsequent stay at Mangu, was hospitality personified, had got everything ready for us. A nice house was placed at our disposal, all swept and garnished, very large, airy, and roomy, with a fine broad verandah. Close by our house was an extraordinary-looking building of native construction called Tamberma Fort. This was built many years ago by a tribe of natives of that name, who live in the extreme north-eastern corner of Togoland. These Tamberma were, and still are, a very wild, warlike, and truculent people. The German Government, I ought to explain, exact what is called a head tax of six shillings a year from each native. It is the equivalent of the British "hut tax," and, like that impost, it has been the cause of endless trouble and bother with the negroes, who in Togoland are called upon, under its provisions, to either pay the tax in cash, or work twelve days on the Government roads, buildings, etc. Now six shillings sounds a very small sum to a civilised white man, but to a semi-wild negro, who never sees any coined money whatever from year's end to year's end, it is, of course, an altogether impossible impost. He has therefore to work it out, and in the case of a distant tribe this means a long journey forward and backward to their homes, with their wives and their little ones, all of which not infrequently involves considerable hardship and privation, for, of course, the negro has to provide food for himself and his family on the journey, though not while he is working out his tax. No wonder he resents the hated impost, and tries to evade it whenever possible; for the native is constitutionally incapable of looking ahead, and cannot be made to see that the work he is called upon to do is for his own benefit as much as, and even in a sense more so, than for that of his white masters. He sees, of course, that the roads he builds, he is able presently to travel over with an assurance unknown in the old days; that the songus he erects shelter him and his family when he is on the move; and that the net result of all this easy intercommunication is a general cheapening of commodities, and the opening of new markets for those he produces. But all this weighs in the balance very little against his innate conservatism and rooted aversion to settled labour.

Well, these Tamberma people came down once to Mangu from their mountain fortresses in the far north-east; then, having finished their allotted task, they packed up their belongings and returned to their homes. And they never quitted them again—at least to come to Mangu. For shortly after they got back to their own country, a new boundary line was drawn between the German and the French possessions in this part of Africa, and the Tamberma country was intersected by this line. The result has been considerable confusion, some of the tribe owning allegiance to one government, and some to the other. Things, however, are now likely to straighten themselves out before long, the Tamberma having, by mutual agreement between the two governments, been given a year in which to decide under which they will come, and this year expires shortly. Meanwhile Tamberma Fort, erected by them as a memento of their visit, still stands in Mangu, a conspicuously picturesque object. It is, I may add, at present used as a mosque by the Mohammedans at the station, who have agreed to keep it in order in return for the privilege.

All round Mangu are big plantations of different kinds of valuable timber, a sort of experimental arboricultural farm. All this work has been done at the initiative and under the personal supervision of the officials there, and they have also carried out many other improvements. The place is, in fact, a little island of civilisation set in a wilderness of savagery, the new station house there, Schomburgk considers, being the finest and handsomest building of its kind in the whole interior of Africa. The country round the station, and especially to the north, is typical of the Sudan, the soil mostly a hard dry ironstone formation. It is on the whole of somewhat arid appearance, but grass grows freely in many parts, and along the banks of the streams, and for a considerable distance on either side one gets a belt of riverine vegetation—trees, osiers, and the like.

Mangu during the harmattan season, which lasts from October to the end of January, is an altogether delightful place of residence; no mosquitoes, pleasantly windy, cool at night, and not too hot by day, because of the harmattan, the sun's rays being unable to penetrate the dry yellow mist. During the rest of the year, however, and especially from May to August, Mangu has been not inaptly described as "Hades with the lid off." Not only is the heat terrific in the day-time—one cannot, I was assured, walk across the square without dripping with perspiration—but it is hardly any cooler at night, while to keep things lively there is an almost continual succession of thunderstorms of appalling intensity, the rain descending with tropical violence at an angle of forty-five degrees or thereabouts, and beating right into the houses, so that at times the people prefer to go out into it at once and have done with it, rather than try to take shelter inside, when it is practically unobtainable. These storms do not last long enough to cool the air, but the lightning seems to take a special fancy to strike the station or the village, one theory advanced to account for this being that there exists beneath the place a subterranean stream of water, which attracts the electric fluid. How feasible this may be, I do not know; but it is a fact that Mangu is very unfortunate in this respect. During the last rainy season, for instance, two natives were killed in the village by lightning, and one here in the station. The lightning also struck Captain von Hirschfeld's house, and went through his writing-table, destroying a lot of papers, he himself only escaping death by a miracle.

We spent Christmas at Mangu, and had a real good time. We ate our Christmas dinner in Captain von Hirschfeld's house, a fine, handsome stone building. It was only finished last October, and when inside, and especially of a night, one can hardly realise that one is in the heart of Africa. We had part of a young pig for our Christmas dinner, and I was present at the killing of him. I must confess that the sight rather sickened me, though later on I became quite an expert butcher. Curious how one sheds the veneer of civilisation in the wilds. After quitting Mangu for the north, we were destined to be absolutely cut off from the outer world for a while, and we relied almost altogether on our guns and rifles for fresh meat for the pot. Then it was the men who hunted and killed the game, and I who prepared and cooked it. In like manner, I take it, did the women of the Stone Age.

At Mangu, however, we were, of course, still in touch with civilisation, and our Christmas dinner, besides being something of a curiosity in its way, was exceedingly nice. I append the menu:

On the dinner-table was a miniature Christmas tree, which had been sent all the way from Germany by Captain von Hirschfeld's mother, and after we had finished eating we gathered round it and toasted absent friends in champagne. I had not looked forward at all to this particular Christmas. In fact, I had rather dreaded it, fearing that it would bring with it more of regret than of pleasure, but as a matter of fact I thoroughly enjoyed it. For one thing, I found it hard to realise, owing to the climate and surroundings, that it was really Christmas; for another, everybody was so kind and hospitable that one could not help feeling merry and jolly. On New Year's Eve we had another little party, and on the stroke of midnight we set fire to about three thousand feet of old celluloid films. The inflammable stuff blazed up fiercely of course, directly a match was applied to it, and made a splendid bonfire.

I have alluded already to the big plantations round about Mangu. Most of these are thriving, but as regards some of them, considerable damage has been done by a species of beetle with huge saw-like forceps. It was pitiful to ride along the plantation roads, and see hundreds and hundreds of fine trees all dead or dying, killed by these insect pests. Every effort has been made, Captain von Hirschfeld told me, to extirpate them, but in vain. In the plantations are many small antelope and immense flocks of guinea-fowl and francolin, the latter a bird resembling a partridge. The best sport of all, however, was afforded by a bird called out there a koran. It is a most comical-looking creature, not unlike a miniature ostrich, but, unlike the ostrich, it is a good flier. Schomburgk was quite an expert in shooting them; right and left—bang! bang! They were excellent for the pot, yielding two distinct kinds of meat, white and brown, arranged in layers like a cream and chocolate sponge-cake. They were so plump and fat that I used to cook them in their own grease, and we all agreed that they were better done that way, being delicious eaten hot, and even better cold. There were also quail in great numbers all round the station, which I used to roast, and serve on toast in the approved fashion. We also had antelope, as many as we cared to shoot. Their meat, which had a pleasant gamey flavour, made a nice change. The only drawback was that we had to eat it too fresh, as of course everything goes bad if kept overnight in this climate.

The Oti River furnished us with fish in abundance. We rode down to it nearly every day, and once we went for a cruise in it on a big dugout native canoe. We started at seven in the morning, and got back at eleven. We were not able to go far, as the water was nearly at its lowest, but still it was very pleasant, and the scenery was very beautiful. Towards the end, however, the sun's rays, reflected back by the almost stagnant water, made things very oppressive. What it must be like in the summer I can only faintly imagine. From a sand-bank where he had stalked it, Hodgson shot a very fine paauw—a kind of bustard—with his rifle at about sixty yards, the bullet passing clean through its neck. It was, of course, a fluky shot, but Hodgson was awfully proud of it, nevertheless.

Early in the morning of December 30th, word was brought to us that the natives were gathering for a grand combined fishing expedition, and, of course, we rode out to see the fun, taking our camera and operator with us. They caught any number of fish, but in a way that I fear would hardly appeal to any genuine disciple of Isaac Walton. Still it was very interesting, and we secured some good pictures. The natives had previously built a number of dams parallel to each other across the river in a shallow and still reach, and they now proceeded to bale out the water from each inclosure until there was only liquid ooze left, in which the fishes hid, and whence they were presently scooped up by hundreds of natives armed with calabashes. Afterwards the master of the ceremonies distributed the catch to the perspiring fishermen. They were mostly of the barbel species, and of very moderate size; but there was one big fellow, which we purchased, and afterwards ate for dinner. He was very nice, unlike many of the Togo river fish, which are about as tasty as blotting-paper flavoured with mud.

We took no dramatic films at Mangu, but plenty of ethnological ones. Cinemaing had now become more difficult than ever, for the intense dry heat kept continually cracking the wood of the cameras, until both Hodgson and Schomburgk were well nigh in despair. Every evening almost they were kept busy repairing the damage done during the day-time, filling the cracks with sealing-wax, which they afterwards smoothed down with hot knives, and covered with sticky tape. We had only brought two cinema cameras with us—in addition to three ordinary ones—and the woodwork of one of these had got so badly warped by the heat on the road up as to interfere with the working of the mechanism, rendering it utterly useless. Consequently we were relying on the one machine; and if anything happened to put it out of action, the whole expedition would come automatically to an end, since no other cinema camera could be bought nearer than Europe. I never saw so much care lavished over an inanimate object, as was bestowed on that machine. Talk about a mother with a new-born babe! Why, that bit of brass and woodwork was watched over by Hodgson as though it had been the apple of his eye. He scarcely ever allowed it out of his keeping, whether on the march or in camp, and a boy was detailed to do nothing else all day long but rub it over with palm-oil.

Amongst other interesting films we took at Mangu was one showing portions of the new stone station in process of construction, with, as a contrast, the old wattle-and-daub buildings still standing in close proximity. The scene here during the hours when work was in full progress was most animated, and our cameras did full justice to it. In one picture an endless row of carriers is seen bringing up the hewn stones from the quarry. In the next native workmen are burning lime in a native kiln. Another picture shows forty stalwart negroes carrying between them an immense baulk of timber, hewn in the mountain forest country many miles away; they had been carrying it after this fashion for eight whole days at the time our photograph was taken. The skilled masonry work is being done by long-term prisoners, many of them in chains, and in charge of armed soldiers. The head mason, I was informed, was a murderer.

After taking this film we rode down to the quarry near the Oti which furnishes the stone. Here were hundreds of natives working out their tax. The quarry, which is a very large one, and seems capable of indefinite extensions, was only discovered quite recently by Captain von Hirschfeld. On the way to it we passed a large "songu," or native resting-place, equivalent to the rest-houses of the whites. Here we saw specimens of races and tribes from all parts of Western Africa, and even parts of Northern Africa, collected together—Hausas from Nigeria; Fulani, with their comparatively pale complexions, and clear-cut European looking features; squat, coal-black, pagan tribesmen from the Kabre Mountains, and the central forest region; Fulbe, from the far interior of the central Sudan; stately Arab traders from Timbuctu, and beyond, clad in flowing snow-white robes; naked Gourma people, fierce and wild looking; and many stalwart Konkombwa, upright and graceful as ever, but minus their helmets and head-dresses; while in and out among the motley throng, naked little children swarmed everywhere, and perfectly nude women and girls, bearing on their heads calabashes of water, or pots of food, trod gravely and sedately to and fro, their brass anklets glittering in the sun, and making music as they moved. It was as picturesque a scene as any I had ever beheld in my lifetime, and certainly more so than any I had yet come across in Togo.

On January the 2nd, in the morning, a soldier came to say that a hyena had been caught in a trap overnight, and we at once saddled up our horses and rode out to have a look at it. The soldier led us to the place where the trap had been, but both it and the hyena had vanished. Investigation showed that the powerful brute had torn up the anchor which held the iron gin-trap in position, and had walked off with the whole contrivance. However, we knew that it was impossible for him to rid himself of the trap altogether, so we followed up his trail to a patch of jungle grass a considerable distance away, where he had hidden himself, and a soldier went in and pulled him out, trap and all. The poor beast howled horribly, and no wonder, for its mouth was all torn and bloody, where it had tried to bite away the iron of the trap. It was no goodly sight, and I was glad to turn away my head while Schomburgk put an end to its misery with a bullet from his mauser. In the afternoon came huge flocks of vultures to feast upon the carcase, and again we put our camera into requisition, getting some fine pictures. They are loathsome-looking creatures, these carrion-eating birds, but of course they are invaluable to the squalid African villages, where they act as general scavengers, and are rarely, if ever, interfered with.

Mangu is plagued with bats—millions on millions of them. I would not have credited it if I had not seen it with my own eyes. If I write that there came at dawn out of a single small hut, twelve to fifteen thousand of the creatures, darkening the air for quite a distance around, I should hardly expect to be believed. But it is so. One of the interpreters told me that on one occasion a deserted hut where there was a rookery—or should it be a "battery"?—of them, was sealed up, and sulphur burned inside. And when they unsealed it in the morning, they counted above eighteen thousand carcases of bats.

We got plenty of milk at Mangu, making a welcome change of diet, also native butter. This latter is good for cooking, but one cannot eat it on one's bread, owing to its rancid taste, even when freshly made. As regards the milk also, one has to be very careful to see that the calabashes are clean. I always saw to this myself, for native servants, as I have already stated elsewhere, have no idea of the importance of hygiene.

One evening, shortly before we quitted Mangu for our "farthest north," Captain von Hirschfeld told us about a number of most interesting records concerning the days of Dr. Gruner and the earlier pioneers, which are preserved here. Schomburgk was greatly interested in them, and urged the Captain to have them published, which he said he would probably do shortly.

CHAPTER XI
OUR "FARTHEST NORTH"

On January 11th, 1914, we left Mangu, where we had been since December the 23rd, and resumed our journey northward. Beyond Mangu, Togo has not yet been opened up, nor is the country considered altogether safe for Europeans. We only went there by special permission of the Government, obtained through H.H. the Duke of Mecklenburg, and he only granted it because Schomburgk was personally known to him as an old and experienced African traveller, who could be trusted to treat the natives well, to neither do nor say anything to provoke them, and who yet was capable of holding his own in an emergency if he were attacked.

Before setting out, too, Schomburgk had to sign an official document, promising only to go north along the Oti River, and not to attempt to enter the Gourma country. He was also warned to be on his guard against the Tschokossi people in the villages of the extreme north, as these were reputed to be shy and suspicious of white strangers entering their territory. As a matter of fact, Schomburgk insisted, in talking the matter over with me, that the Tschokossi are nowhere dangerous if properly handled, and that there was likewise little or nothing to fear from the Gourma people living in German territory, although he admitted that occasionally parties of Gourma come over from French territory as far as Panscheli, whither we were bound, and that these strays are apt to be troublesome, and even truculent. Indeed, only quite recently a German officer traversing the very district into which we were about to penetrate, and having with him a big escort of soldiers, was attacked by prowling savages, who shot a flight of poisoned arrows into the tent where he was asleep. According to the version of the affair I heard, he must have escaped death by a miracle. He was, I was told, lying down asleep when he was awakened by the "plunk, plunk, plunk," of the arrows striking and penetrating the taut canvas. Jumping up, he ran to the entrance of the tent, whereupon the lurking savages shot another volley, one of the arrows glancing from the tent pole behind which he was standing, and wounding him on the forehead. With commendable presence of mind, instead of going after his assailants, he at once sat down upon the ground, and called to his native boy, who there and then set to work to suck the poison from the wound. In this way his life was saved, for although he suffered great agony, and was seriously ill for quite a long while, he recovered in the end. He was lucky, for, as a rule, the least scratch from one of these poisoned arrows proves fatal. I made many inquiries during my stay in the country, and afterwards, as to what was the particular poison used by the natives on their arrow tips, but I could get no proper information, or rather, I should say that what I did get was extremely contradictory. A Doctor Porteous, a friend of mine, assured me that he had analysed some of it taken from a freshly-smeared arrow, and found it to be a preparation of digitalis, made from a native plant of the fox-glove variety. On the other hand, I have talked with people who claim to have actually seen the natives poisoning their arrows by the simple process of sticking the points in a lump of putrid meat, and leaving them there for a while; while yet others assert that the poison is a preparation of rotting vegetable earth taken from the nearest bog-hole. There may be some truth in this, for it is known that people wounded by the arrows frequently succumb to tetanus. The probability is that no one poison is used at all times, and by all the tribes, but that different kinds are utilised as opportunity offers.

It was on a Sunday morning that we quitted Mangu, and Captain von Hirschfeld, with his usual kindness, made all arrangements for carriers and so forth, and also stored our spare baggage against our return. Our first day's march was only five miles, and, travelling as we did along the Oti valley, in which the natives had just been burning the grass, it was anything but pleasant riding. The air was filled with a black impalpable dust, which got into my eyes, down my throat, up my nostrils—everywhere. The heat was terrific, and caused one to perspire freely, so that our faces soon took on a most unbeautiful streaky appearance. The water I washed in when we camped became of the colour of ink, and the consistency almost of pea soup; and when I unbound my hair, showers of blacks descended from it to the ground.

Schomburgk wanted to camp at a village, but I was greatly taken with a very pretty spot, lying fifteen feet or so up on a bluff in a bend of the river, and from which a beautiful view could be had over the surrounding country. To this Schomburgk objected, saying that the wind was likely to prove troublesome by day, and that at night we were pretty certain to be eaten up by mosquitoes. I persisted, however, and in the end he allowed me to have my way. Afterwards, I wished he hadn't. His prediction was verified. Very much so, in fact. As the day advanced, a hot wind swept across the Oti plains in fierce eddying gusts, bringing with it more clouds of black dust from the burnt veldt; and at night the mosquitoes were so bad that we couldn't sleep, exactly as he had foretold. I never encountered anything quite so bad in the way of insect pests as were these mosquitoes on the banks of the Oti. The boys had to light fires of green boughs to drive them away, and while they were crouching over them, half-suffocated by the smoke, Schomburgk started to tell me about some mosquitoes he once encountered in the Congo forest region. "Why," he remarked, "we used to shoot them like game with our revolvers as they sat perched on the boughs of the trees above our heads, and so big were they that several of them weighed a pound." "Get out," I retorted indignantly, "there are no such insects anywhere in the world." "It is the literal truth I am telling you," he replied, gravely, "several of those Congo mosquitoes weighed a pound." "Yes," put in Hodgson slyly, with a laugh and a wink at me, "several of them. Several thousands—or millions if you like." Then, of course, I saw the joke, such as it was, and we all laughed.

The place near to which our camp was pitched was a small Tschokossi village called Bwete. The people were very wild in appearance. The Tschokossi living in and about Mangu were comparatively civilised, but these were just savages pure and simple. The men wore only small loin slips of undressed bark, the women bunches of green branches before and behind. These they renewed daily when they went down to the river to wash in the early morning. Each woman or girl plucked a few branches, thereby possessing herself of a new dress. In this respect these children of nature go one better than ourselves. No civilised woman, I take it, be she ever so wealthy, has a new dress every day. Schomburgk considered these umbrageous costumes hideous, but I thought them very pretty, modest, and becoming. Certainly, on hygienic grounds, the custom has much to recommend it.

In the afternoon all our boys went down to the river to bathe in a big deep pool, in which I had previously observed several crocodiles disporting themselves. I was horrified when I saw them, and called to them to come out, telling them what I had seen; but they only laughed at my fears, and went on swimming, skylarking, and splashing about. The natives assert, and probably with truth, that whereas for one man to venture alone by himself into a crocodile-infested pool would be for him to court almost certain death, a number of them can go in together with impunity. Doubtless the reptiles are frightened at the noise and the splashing, and lie low instead of attacking, fearing for their own safety.

On the road to this village a pet monkey we had bought earlier in the trip got loose, and bolted across the veldt. It was being carried shut up in a hen-coop, and probably resented the indignity. We were greatly perturbed, for we had all of us become more or less attached to the "comical little cuss," as Artemus Ward would doubtless have called him, and we did not want to lose him. The boys tried their hardest to catch him, and failed; but directly Schomburgk called him, he came to him, and rode coiled up on the front of his saddle for the rest of the day.

Shortly after this episode we came upon a very picturesque little lake, a really pretty sheet of water, long and narrow. We had been on the look-out for this, because before we left Mangu one of the officials there told us that he had recently shot a big bull hippopotamus here, and Schomburgk was anxious to film one or more of these creatures. So we circled the entire lake, going up one side and down the other, examining it carefully. There were lots of water-fowl, but no hippos, big or little, male or female. When we reached camp, our boys told us that they had seen a big herd of antelope. This was tantalising, for we wanted meat for the pot, and we had seen nothing of them. The natives are still busy at their favourite pastime—at this season of the year—of burning the grass on the Oti flats, and the wind, as usual, blew the calcined debris into our eyes and noses. Anything but pleasant!

Next day we resumed our march. Our intention had been to follow the Oti, but the river winds in and out just about here in the most bewildering and tantalising manner, and our soldier guide from Mangu, in attempting a short cut, lost his way. We passed through or round a number of dirty Tschokossi villages, but the people were sullen and suspicious, refused to answer our questions, or replied only in non-committal monosyllables. These people live, like the Konkombwa, in tiny hamlets of two or three families, and, to judge by their replies to our requests for information, one would have imagined that no such river as the Oti existed anywhere in Togo, let alone close to where they lived, moved, and had their being.

At length, thoroughly vexed and tired out, hot, dusty and thirsty, we halted at noon at a place called Magu, and put up our tents under some low, withered trees. It proved to be a most uncomfortable camping ground. The black dust settled everywhere. The sun beat down with a perfectly awful intensity, and it was practically impossible to obtain shelter from the heat, the country all round being low bush, interspersed with open veldt. Late in the afternoon, after a rest, Schomburgk set out to try and find the Oti, and returned in a little while with the somewhat comforting news, under the circumstances, that it was only about a quarter of an hour's march ahead. And yet the people here had assured us that it was "very far away." This shows what reliance is to be placed on the word of a wild native. Schomburgk further told us that on the way back from the river he had sighted a roan antelope, but that it was too far off for him to be able to get a shot. Another disappointment!

Before going to bed that night Schomburgk instructed the interpreter to rouse us at 5 A.M. Presently I heard him calling out as usual that it was time to get up, and in obedience to the summons I arose, though feeling unusually sleepy. I put this down, however, to the tiring events of the day previous, and, having washed and dressed, I went outside the tent. To my surprise, I found the moon still high in the heavens, and only then did it occur to me to look at my watch. The time was 2.30 A.M. After saying some things the reverse of complimentary to the interpreter, I re-entered my tent and lay down, intending to try and get to sleep again. But meanwhile Hodgson, who had also been awakened, had started a long confab with one of the native boys. Hodgson was a first-rate operator, and a very decent sort of a fellow to boot, but he was one of the most confirmed chatterboxes I ever came across. I used to tell him that he would talk to his own shadow, if there was nothing and nobody else to talk to. In this respect he was the very reverse of Schomburgk, who, like most men who have lived long in the wilds, was a very quiet, reserved sort of man.

At five o'clock, we rose finally for the day, and resumed our march in the direction of the Oti, striking it, as Schomburgk had already told us we would, in from fifteen to twenty minutes. We are now in an utterly wild country, where few, if any, white people, whether men or women, have ever been before. There are no paths, and the native tracks—one cannot call them trails—lead nowhere save from village to village, or possibly to water-holes, or river fords, as the case may be. For the most part we tried to follow the Oti, but the wide bends it made, and the nature of the banks in places, rendered this at times an absolute impossibility.

We are in a fine game country, and we saw many troops of antelope. Flocks of guinea-fowl, too, ran along in front of the horses; francolin flew up in coveys of ten and twelve; crested crane kept passing overhead on their way from one feeding-ground to another, uttering their haunting rasping cry. It was a beautiful sight to a city-bred girl. I felt I was really near to Nature at last; that here was God's big "zoo." I did not want to talk—only to listen and look. I am beginning to understand now how it is that all the white bush people are quiet men, who think a lot, but say little, like the famous parrot of immortal memory. Crossing, as I have already said, a succession of big bends, we were mostly out of sight of the river, but when we did catch a glimpse of it I could see that it was covered with ducks, teal, and all sorts of water-fowl; while every thicket and clump of trees we came to held colonies of bright-hued land birds, blue jays, sun-birds, and so on, whose gorgeous plumage, flashing in the sunshine, was a source of never-ending pleasure.

It was concerning these fine-feathered birds that Schomburgk and I had "words" one day. I badly wanted him to shoot a few specimens, and preserve them for me, as I had reason to know that he is an exceedingly skilful amateur taxidermist. But he politely and firmly declined to do anything of the kind. He is in favour of the protection of wild birds, and holds strong views about killing them in order to strip them of their plumage. "We might," he said, "take back to Europe hundreds of pounds' worth of feathers and skins from this district, but to do so would be a crime against Nature and against Nature's God." I replied that I didn't want to do murder for money, but that I would like a few specimens for my own personal use and adornment. "Besides," I added, "you kill birds for the pot—francolin, quail, and so forth—and what the difference is between killing them to eat and killing them to wear, I cannot for the life of me make out. So far as I can see, it makes precious little difference to the poor birds." To this Schomburgk retorted that men must eat, and women too for that matter, but that the latter need not stick feathers or stuffed birds in their hats. Eventually, however, he did so far do violence to his principles as to shoot me a single sun-bird, out of the many hundreds that were flying about. These little creatures are exceedingly beautiful; purple red about the body, with lovely blue heads, a splash of blue at the root of the tail, and very much elongated and very brilliant tail feathers. Schomburgk, also, yielding to my earnest entreaties, shot me a blue jay, and gave to Hodgson permission to shoot me one other. These have been greatly admired since in London, for, of course, we took care before shooting them to select perfect specimens in full plumage. But I wish my fair friends could have seen them as I saw them first, when the feathers were alive. The difference between the plumage of a stuffed bird and a living one, or even one recently killed, is very marked. It is the difference between a woman's own hair and a made-up switch, between a peroxide blonde and a real one.

These bright-plumaged birds, by the way, do not sing. A few of them whistle, but mostly their cries are coarse and rasping ones. The reason is, of course, that they rely upon the beauty of their colouring to do the work of sex attraction. It is wonderful, when one comes to think of it, how always and everywhere it is love, love, love, that makes the world go round. To it we owe the beauty of the colouring of the sun-birds, the tail feathers of the bird of paradise, the song of the nightingale, and these in their turn, no doubt, in the dim, distant past, gave birth to painting and to music. No doubt the first Tschokossi belle who tore down a green branch to deck herself withal, was moved in the first instance by sex attraction, and the same holds good to-day of a frock by Worth.

It is astonishing how tame the antelope, and four-footed game became—so far at least as I personally was concerned—as we trekked farther into the wilderness. They seemed almost to have lost all fear of me whatever. The pretty little puku antelopes used to stop and gaze curiously at me until I was within a few yards of them, and once a couple of reitbuck got up right in front of my horse, and stood stock-still staring at me. I called to Schomburgk to bring his rifle, but by the time he got to me they had galloped off.

On the morning of January 13th, after following the Oti for about eight miles, we debouched on to a big open plain, and Schomburgk and Hodgson rode on ahead along the river bank to explore, leaving me to lead the caravan across the flat. The going for the horses soon became exceedingly bad, so that we could only move at a snail's pace. It is the kind of country that is known out here as "yam-field country"; for the following reason. The natives, when they cultivate their yams, hoe up a little hillock round each plant. Now in the rainy season the country we are crossing—part of the Oti flats—is all under water, and when this dries up it leaves a lot of little hillocks, which the sun presently bakes into the consistency of bricks. Hence the name!

Owing to the recent firing of the old grass, however, there was plenty of fresh green stuff in the interstices between the hillocks, and this furnished fodder for countless troops of antelope. I never saw so many together at one time before. Some of the herds we encountered numbered between thirty and forty head. While Schomburgk and Hodgson were with the caravan, they were shy, but with me riding alone it was quite different. They seemed instinctively to realise that they were in no danger. They would stand still gazing stolidly in my direction until I was within thirty or forty yards of them, before gracefully cantering off, afterwards stopping every now and again to turn round and stare inquisitively at what was evidently something quite new to them. Others would simply trot a little way to one side of the path we were following, then line up to see us pass, like soldiers on parade.

It was while I was gazing admiringly at a row of these pretty little creatures, that my boys drew my attention to a big moving object in the distance, whispering excitedly: "Look, missy—some big meat!" The native, I may explain, calls all game "meat." Focussing the object through my field-glasses, I saw that it was an unusually fine specimen of a roan antelope, the size of a small horse. These roan antelopes are, of course, quite different from the small puku, and other similar varieties; they are, in fact, the second biggest of the antelope species, only the eland being larger. This one, to the unaided eye, looked like a blue-black shadow moving obliquely across the bright sunlight, and I do not suppose I should ever have noticed it had it not been for my boys. With the glasses, however, I could see distinctly the beautiful dappled skin, note the proud carriage of the creature's head, and watch its long tail swaying rhythmically and regularly to and fro as it switched the flies from its hind quarters. It was moving across our track well in advance, and was evidently travelling from the river, where it had been for its morning drink, back to the safety and shelter of the bush beyond. When I first focussed it, it was going quite leisurely, but after I had been observing it for about a minute or two I saw it stop suddenly, and gaze anxiously in my direction. Evidently it had got our wind. It started to throw up its head in angry defiance. Then it began to paw the ground, and a moment later it was off and away like an arrow from a bow.

Presently we breasted a slight rise, and then rode down into a sort of circular depression, in the centre of which was a small "vley," or hollow, where the water collects from the rainy season. It was literally covered, and also surrounded, by an immense collection of birds of all kinds, amongst them being about a hundred marabou. My heart gave a great bound at the sight of these latter, and for the first and last time during our journey I regretted that I carried no gun. Here were hundreds of pounds' worth of the most beautiful and highly-prized feathers in the world within easy reach of me, and I couldn't get one of them. I could easily have shot them had I a weapon handy, for they allowed me to come quite close to them, before lazily rising, only to settle again a few hundred yards farther on. Later on I told Schomburgk about them, and begged him to go back and get me at least one bird; but his reply was a blunt negative. "I've told you already I will not shoot these beautiful creatures," he said. "But marabou feathers!" I replied, almost crying with vexation. "You don't know what they mean to a woman. And such splendid specimens too. Why they are practically priceless." To all of which, and much more on similar lines, he listened in silence, only shaking his head doggedly from time to time. However, I was destined to get my marabou feathers later on, and that, too, without doing violence to Schomburgk's feelings by killing even one single bird. But that is another story, which will come in its proper place. These marabou birds, by the way, were first discovered to exist in Togo by Schomburgk during this very trip, he coming across a flock of them accidentally, just as I had done. When we went back to Mangu, and he told them there what he had seen, they absolutely declined to believe him, holding that he must have mistaken some other commoner species of the crane family for the rare and valuable marabou stork. Our old friend. Captain von Hirschfeld, was especially emphatic on the subject, saying that he had resided in the country for years, that he had travelled all about it on his official tours of inspection, and that if there were any such birds in Togoland he would have been sure to have come across them. We were standing on the square in front of the Captain's house when this conversation took place, and Schomburgk, happening to glance up, remarked quietly to von Hirschfeld: "Why, there's one flying overhead now," at the same time handing him his glasses. "By gad, you're right," cried the Captain, after he had focussed the bird, "I can see the tail feathers plainly." And from now on therefore the Leptoptilus crumenifer will figure in the list of birds indigenous to Togo. I may add that after coming to London I made frequent inquiries in the millinery shops of the West End for African marabou feathers, but never once did I succeed in getting even a peep at the genuine article. Those I was offered, and at very high prices too, were mostly of the far less valuable Indian variety, though others were not even derived from any of the cranes, but were the product of all sorts of birds, including vultures.

After leaving the vley where the marabou were, we rode on and on across the shadeless, waterless, sun-baked plain. The heat was terrific, and the guide seemed to have completely lost his way. I confess to feeling anxious, and at length I called a halt, feeling that we might as well be sitting still, as to go on travelling in a direction that might be a wrong one. In about an hour Schomburgk and Hodgson turned up. They had been following the course of the river, scouting, taking compass bearings, and doing a little mapping. They had found that the Oti took another big bend just here.

Schomburgk took over command of the caravan from me, and set a course due north, towards a fairly large village called Sumbu. Soon afterwards we quitted the plain, and climbed up on to a plateau. Everybody was very tired, including myself, and I quite understood now why natives preferred to go nude, or with only a loin-cloth. One never realises how utterly ridiculous and superfluous civilised clothing can become, until one travels in the African bush during the heat of the day. We passed many dirty little Tschokossi villages, mostly deserted or in ruins, but saw no inhabitants. At last, when we were beginning to despair, we discerned in one we sighted some slight signs of life; a stray chicken or so, and a mongrel dog. Riding up to it we found it to be quite a small hamlet, inhabited by a mixed lot of Tschokossi, and some Fulani, who were looking after their cattle. The Tschokossi, I may explain, are not themselves cattle-breeders. All the stock they own comes down to them from the north by way of trade, and always in charge of the Fulani, who, in regard to their knowledge of cattle and their ways, may be termed the Masai of Western Africa. These Fulani drovers, being mostly poor men in their own country, or at all events cattle-less, which amounts to much the same thing, are only too glad to remain and settle down amongst the Tschokossi for a while, and look after their herds. They receive as their reward the milk, and at stated intervals a calf or two. These latter increase and multiply, and in time each Fulani possesses a herd of his own, and returns to his own land a rich man, judged by Fulani standards. I was greatly interested in these people, who are, as I think I have already mentioned, of an altogether different type to the ordinary negro tribes dwelling in this part of Africa. I found them quite intelligent to talk to. They possess clear-cut features, approximating to the European standard, light chocolate-coloured skins, and some of the women I saw were by no means bad-looking. The Fulani as a class are supposed to be of Arab and Berber blood, with a dash of the negroid. At this village we called a halt, and partook of a hurried lunch, which was greatly improved by a big calabash of fresh milk brought us by the Fulani herdsmen.

After lunch Schomburgk and I cantered on to Sumbu, about two miles distant, leaving the caravan to follow. On the way two reitbuck got up, and stood looking at us not ten yards away. Schomburgk's language at not having his rifle with him was, to put it mildly, not elegant. Personally, I was glad that he hadn't got it with him, but I did not tell him so. The beautiful creatures were so close up, that I could see the look of startled terror in their lovely big brown eyes, and I was pleased when they scampered away, even though their meat would have come in most handy for the pot. At Sumbu, we pitched our camp on a promontory overlooking the Oti, which is here bordered with fresh grass, very pretty. The outlook, too, over the plains to the north and west was very cheering, with herds of puku grazing quietly at intervals as far as the eye could reach. We intend staying here four or five days.

CHAPTER XII
AMONG THE SUMBU SAVAGES

We carried out our intention, as narrated at the end of the last chapter, and stayed at Sumbu several days, making short excursions into the surrounding country, and a dash north-east as far as the French frontier. We have now traversed Togoland from end to end, and I can flatter myself that I am at all events the first white woman to go farther than Sokode, and only one or two, at most, have ever been so far as that.

The people about here are a very wild and mixed lot. Besides the native Tschokossi, who are indigenous to the soil, so to speak, there are many others—Gourma people from the northern plains, Fulani from the central Sudan, Ashantis from the neighbouring British dominions, and Dahomeyans from across the French international boundary, with a sprinkling of individuals belonging to other tribes and peoples from various districts and states, who, for reasons best known to themselves, have sought sanctuary, as it were, in this remote and seldom-visited region, within comparatively easy reach of three different frontiers.

On the afternoon after our arrival the men went out shooting, and I noticed directly that our boys kept close round my tent, and that their usually merry countenances wore an exceedingly staid, not to say sombre, aspect. As this was so entirely unlike their conduct under normal circumstances, I asked them the reason for it. They answered that they were afraid to venture outside the camp. "People here," they said, "very bad people; they very much kill."

This was not very reassuring, and when Messa, the cook, came presently to tell me that he was unable to get any fowls, the interpreter having reported that the people in the village refused to sell, I felt rather uneasy. From where I was, I could see the natives sitting about outside their huts, each one with his bow and quiver of poisoned arrows beside him.

However, I reflected that I had to get dinner somehow against the return of the hunters, so calling the cook I ordered him to come with me to the village. At first he refused, saying that he was frightened. But I told him that if a woman could go there, surely a man could, and eventually he consented, very reluctantly, to accompany me. When we approached the place, the children all ran away screaming. This did not trouble me greatly. I had become used to it. What I did not like was that the women, in obedience to gestures from their men-folk, also went away—where I could not see. This I interpreted as a pretty bad sign, for it is well known that the African natives invariably send away their women and children when mischief is brewing. The men sat still, and scowled at us in silence, making no move, and speaking no word.

At this moment I must confess to feeling very frightened. I remembered the gruesome incident of the white man and the poisoned arrows. The affair had happened quite close to where I then was. It was likely, indeed probable, that some of these very men who sat there scowling at me, had been concerned in that cowardly and treacherous attack. However, I reflected that having adventured myself amongst them I had got to brazen it out. It would never do now to show the white feather, for if we retreated we must of necessity turn our backs upon them—we could not very well retire facing them and walking backwards all the way to the camp—and a flight of arrows let fly on the impulse of the moment would mean the end of the pair of us.

So, stalking along till I came close up to them, I said, addressing one of the biggest of the groups of squatting negroes, that I wished to buy a fowl. Nobody took the slightest notice. I waited a matter of thirty seconds or so, then fixing one of the least truculent-looking of the savages with my eyes, I addressed my request to him personally. I told him that I wanted a chicken, that I was willing to pay anything within reason for a chicken, but that a chicken I must have. Thereupon the man rose, caught a fowl, and handed it to me, still without speaking.

I had not brought with me any salt—the usual currency of the country—so I gave him a whole sixpence in cash. It was probably the first coined money that he, or any of those sitting near him, had ever seen. Everybody pressed round to examine it, and everybody started to express his opinion concerning it. The jabbering was terrific, and hearing the din the women came running up, and even the children ventured near, their wide-open eyes fixed in staring astonishment at the stranger white woman who had dropped from the skies, as it were, into their village, in order to bargain for chickens with tiny bits of metal. Eventually, after being passed from hand to hand all round the circle, the sixpence was returned to me by the man to whom I had originally tendered it, and who now, opening his mouth for the first time, condescended to explain that the price of his chicken was half a cupful of salt—i.e. about three-halfpence. I told him that the sixpence I had given him was worth two whole cupfuls of salt, and ought therefore by rights to purchase four chickens, taking the birds at his own valuation, but that as he had been the only one to oblige me by selling me what I wanted, he could keep the sixpence and I would keep the bird.

He shook his head. Obviously he did not believe me. Most likely he thought I was trying to obtain his valuable chicken in exchange for a worthless fragment of metal, which, assuming him to be fool enough to accept it, his wife would promptly annex as a neck ornament, and which, even at that, would not be much of an ornament. Luckily at this juncture a much-travelled native from a neighbouring village—he had once been as far as Mangu—put in an appearance, and on being appealed to, and after an examination of the sixpence, was able to confirm to his fellows my statement as to the seemingly fabulous value of the coin. At once the spell was broken. Obviously a person who, like myself, was willing to buy chickens at four times the ordinary market rates, was an individual whose acquaintance was worth cultivating.

From being almost openly hostile, the villagers went to the other extreme, and became embarrassingly friendly. Everybody crowded round, the women especially evincing the liveliest curiosity. They felt my clothes, my arms, my neck, my hair; especially my hair, bombarding me with questions concerning it meanwhile. Was it all my own? Did all white women's hair grow straight like mine? What made it so shiny? Did I put palm oil on it? These, and other even more delicate questions concerning the inner mysteries of my toilet, were flung at me by all and sundry. To distract their attention from the subject, I picked up and fondled a little urchin of three, or thereabouts. At once every woman in the place ran to fetch her own offspring, and held them up for my approval and admiration. A happy thought struck me. I had in my pocket several lumps of sugar, which I carried about with me to give to the horses. Taking them out, I distributed them amongst the nearest children. They took them, but had evidently no idea what to do with them. One little girl, placing her lump in a calabash, started to bore a hole in it with a thin piece of pointed iron, like a skewer, obviously with the intention of hanging it round her neck as a charm, and seemed greatly disappointed and annoyed when it broke into several pieces. Meanwhile, I had bitten a lump I had reserved for myself in halves, and putting one part in my mouth, handed the other half to a little boy standing near me, who, greatly daring, licked it. His delight was promptly manifested in his face. I doubt whether Charles Lamb's mythical Chinaman showed a more intense appreciation of the flavour of roast pig, when tasting it for the first time, than did this little Tschokossi savage on first sampling sugar. After indulging in several more licks, he handed it to his mother, who started licking it in her turn; and who, like her child, showed her manifest appreciation of the delicacy after the first lick. Other women were not slow to follow her example. Soon the place was full of women and children licking lumps of sugar, the novel delicacies being passed from hand to hand, and from mouth to mouth, the recipients meanwhile "ul-ul-ulling" in gleeful anticipation and excitement. After this little episode, whenever I showed my face in Sumbu, I was sure to be followed by crowds of children, begging for some of my "white honey rock," as they not inaptly christened it.

The ice once broken, I became very friendly with the Sumbu people, so much so that I asked the chief to show me over his village. He readily agreed. It was a most extraordinary place, unlike any I had ever seen or heard of, and merits a detailed description. The village itself is egg-shaped, the huts round, and placed closely together, not more than two yards apart, all round the rim of the oval, the roofs overlapping in such a manner that the edges of the opposite down-sloping eaves practically meet at a height of about three feet from the ground. The huts are completely joined together all the way round by two walls, an outer wall and an inner wall, the same height as the huts, the outer wall protected by thorn bushes. The entrance hole—one cannot call it a door—to each hut is two feet from the ground, is round in shape, and of a diameter just sufficiently large to allow a full-grown native to squeeze through feet foremost. The only entrance to the village is through a fair-sized doorway in a big hut at one extremity of the oval. This big hut is a sort of communal one, and is used, as regards one side of it, for the women to grind the corn on stones placed upon a hard clay platform the height of a table; and as regards the other side, as a sort of club-room for the men to sit in during the rainy season in the daytime, and as a stable for the sheep and goats at night. At the opposite end of this big hut is a second fair-sized doorway giving access to a courtyard. From the level of the first two huts (see plan) to right and left of the big communal hut a straight wall is carried right across from wall to wall, dividing the inner egg-shaped inclosure into two unequal portions, the larger portion being on the far side of the wall. This intersecting wall has a doorway in the centre through which admission is secured to the other further portion of the inclosure, and from this far inclosure only can access be had to the huts.