And not even then directly. When I arrived in this inner space, after being politely conducted by the chief through the communal hut, and across the courtyard, I naturally thought to see some signs of human habitation, and looked round for the doors of the dwelling-places. To my great surprise, however, there was nothing to be seen but the bare inner wall; and the chief, his eyes twinkling at my obvious bewilderment, presently reared against this a forked stick, and motioned me to climb up it, using it in fact as a ladder. I did so, though not without some slight misgiving, and stepping over, and down the other side, I found myself in a sort of well-like space between the inner and outer walls and two of the huts. From here only could access be had to the actual dwelling-places of the Tschokossi, through the small round holes mentioned above, and which were placed close up under the low overhanging eaves. Even, however, after squeezing one's body through this hole, one has not yet reached the actual interior of one of the houses. One is faced by yet another blank wall, round which one has to negotiate a careful passage in pitch darkness. This inner wall is intended to prevent anybody from creeping in under cover of darkness, and shooting off poisoned arrows amongst the sleepers inside, a pleasant practice to which both the Tschokossi and the Gourma are said to be only too frequently addicted. The whole series of elaborate precautions dates from the days when inter-tribal warfare, instead of being sporadic, was endemic. Every one of these villages is in fact a fortress, and every house is a fort. To storm such a place would be exceedingly difficult, at least for savages armed only with bows and arrows; to surprise it would be impossible, especially in view of the fact that the two blank spaces contained between the outer and inner walls and the big communal entrance hut and the two nearest to it on either side, are utilised to keep chickens in, and these creatures would at once give notice, by their unwonted commotion, of the presence of an intruder. The natives dwelling near Mangu, as well, of course, as those living to the south of it, have now entirely given up building these fortress villages, the necessity for them having ceased to exist. Nor is it likely that even the Tschokossi of the extreme north of Togo will build any more, when those they are now dwelling in are abandoned, or fall into ruin. I learned later that these Tschokossi people are supposed to have learnt the art of building these curious villages from the Gourma people, with whom they are intermixed.

I forgot to say that after I had bought the chicken, and had handed it to Messa, at the same time telling him that I was about to go inside the village at the chief's invitation, he tried earnestly to dissuade me from doing anything of the sort. "Oh, but I am going," I replied, "and you will come with me." Whereupon he threw up his hands with an expressive gesture, and declared that he was afraid. "I will go and call Alfred," he suddenly ejaculated, after a few moments' cogitation, "him big man, him no frightened," and off he went at a great pace, before I could stop him. Alfred, I may explain, was our chief interpreter, and stood six feet three inches in his bare feet.

Well, I waited for him to put in an appearance until I grew tired; then I went alone into the village, to the great delight of the old chief, who seemed vastly to appreciate my reposing such implicit confidence in him, and started off explaining everything to me with great volubility. Of course I could not understand a word of what he said, so on second thoughts I decided to go outside again and wait until Alfred turned up. This he did soon afterwards, walking very slowly and reluctantly, and evincing the greatest indisposition to come with me into the village. At length I got angry with him. "Surely," I said, "if a little slip of a girl like me is not afraid, a long slab of misery like you ought not to be"; and I wound up by threatening to report him to Schomburgk. Only then did he agree very unwillingly to accompany me, at the same time protesting so solemnly and earnestly against the "terrible risks" we were running, that once the thought did flash through my mind that my insistence on the enterprise might possibly turn out to be yet another example of the danger of fools rushing in where angels fear to tread. "But then," I reflected, "I am no fool, and Messa is most certainly not an angel"; and I thereupon took my courage in both hands, and in we went, with what result I have already stated. I was greatly pleased and excited at my discovery of this extraordinary village, as also was Schomburgk when I told him about it. It was, he agreed, one more fact added to our anthropological knowledge of darkest Africa; and of a kind, moreover, regarding which nothing has ever before appeared in print.

After this little episode we never had any difficulty during our stay there in getting plenty of chickens from the people at the ordinary market rates, which shows, to me at all events, that by firmness, mixed with kindness, one can do a lot with natives, even very wild ones. Our camp is on a high plateau, very picturesque, and commanding a quite extensive view over the high rolling veldt. Provisions are plentiful, with the exception of eggs, which are scarce just now. The Fulani, however, still continue to bring us milk, and butter for cooking. As their village lies at a much lower elevation than our camp, I am able to see them coming a long way off, and their first advent upon the scene is the signal to begin to get breakfast ready. We use the milk for our porridge and our coffee, but it is always very dirty. Tolstoy was right when he wrote that cleanliness is the hallmark of the classes the world over. The lower down, the dirtier! Most of these people, for instance, are simply filthy, possessing not even the most rudimentary notions of cleanliness. They defecate promiscuously in the neighbourhood of their villages, and they throw out their garbage anywhere. One result is a plague of flies, which settle everywhere, and must be ideal breeders and carriers of disease under the circumstances. At first I was really afraid to use the milk they brought. But by straining it through a clean cloth, and then boiling it, I have managed so far to ward off any ill effects. I have to pay these people in salt for all the milk, butter, and eggs they bring; they absolutely refuse to accept coined money. The rate of exchange has been fixed at one cupful of salt for each big calabash of milk, and the same for a pat of butter. They bring so much milk at one time, that there is quite a lot left over, and the happy thought struck me to make cheese of it. I put it in a big basin, allowed the cream to rise, skimmed it off, put it in a serviette, and hung it up in the branches of a tree. The result was an excellent cream cheese, which, after I added some salt and carraway seeds to it to give it a flavour, proved to be quite nice and palatable. I tried it first on Schomburgk, who liked it immensely. "Who made it?" he asked. "I did," I answered, quite proud, as what woman would not be, of my achievement. "Good!" he cried. "Give me another helping." Presently Hodgson came along. "Have some cheese?" I said. Hodgson eyed the dainty doubtfully, thinking it to be of native manufacture, and he had a rooted aversion and prejudice—not altogether unreasonable under the circumstances—against any article of native-made food. "Who made it?" he demanded, using Schomburgk's exact words. I was just about to answer him as I had answered Schomburgk, when the latter kicked me violently under the table. I understood, and my lips framed the ready lie. "Oh, the cook, I suppose," I answered carelessly. "Then I don't want any," he replied decisively. Whereat Schomburgk kicked me again under the table, but appreciatively this time; and we finished the rest of the cheese together. Then we both started laughing, and Hodgson grew quite angry, because he didn't know what the joke was. He knows now, however; or he will, at all events, when he comes to read this book.

I had other domestic troubles at Sumbu, in addition to culinary ones. Washing-day was a great trial. Our "washerwoman" was a boy, if you please, and said "boy" was a man, which sounds rather paradoxical, but you will find it is quite right, dear reader, and good sense, if you stop to think for a minute. Well, this boy, or man, or "washerwoman," whichever you please, had one fixed idea as regards the cleansing of clothes, and that idea was the one underlying, according to the old English proverb, the correct treatment of "a woman, a dog, and a walnut tree," as regards all three of which we are assured that "the more you beat 'em the better they be." Only I am convinced that neither woman, nor dog, nor walnut tree could possibly have stood, for any but the briefest period, the terrible beatings that our boy subjected our clothes to. He was a small, undersized man, but very strong and energetic, and with fists like ginger-beer bottles, and he used to pound and tear my delicate lingerie into shreds with his iron-shod paws, as a preliminary to hammering it to pulp on a big chunk of rough stone. Eventually Schomburgk raised his wages, on condition that he didn't work so hard; the first time on record, I suppose, that an employer has so acted. The result was disastrous. From that moment he ceased to take any interest whatever in his washing operations. He just trailed the soiled things in the river for a few minutes, and took them out again. When I, in despair at getting them cleansed, but hopeful of getting them at least smoothed out, suggested damping them down, and ironing them, he compromised matters with his conscience by ironing them wet. "What is the good," he exclaimed when I expostulated with him, "of first drying things, and then wetting them again, in order to dry them yet again with hot irons?" Such logic, regarded merely as logic, was unanswerable, and I was wise enough to at least refrain from attempting the obviously impossible.

There were a lot of old people in Sumbu. As a rule one sees few such in Africa. One old chap I especially remember. He used to sit in front of his hut all day, a mere living skeleton, only skin and bones. He looked exactly like a shrivelled-up monkey, or a mummy out of the British Museum. One day, taking pity on him, I gave a woman a lump of sugar to give to him. After he had eaten it, to my unbounded amazement he scrambled to his feet and executed a sort of impromptu war-dance. Later on he told our interpreter that he was now willing to die, having eaten of the white woman's honey rock. The phrase sounds new, but it isn't. It is merely one more variant of the "fate-cannot-harm-me-I-have-dined-to-day" wheeze.

The chief of Sumbu, the same who conducted me over his village, is the ugliest man I ever set eyes on, even in Africa, which is saying a good deal. He was so surpassingly ugly, so perfectly and preposterously hideous, that we took a cinema picture of him. We did not, however, think it necessary to explain to him our real reason for wishing to photograph him. On the contrary, we told him that it was because, besides being the northernmost chief in Togo we had visited, he was also the handsomest, and Europe would be inconsolable if it were to be deprived of possessing a pictorial record of an individual at once so distinguished and so beautiful. Hodgson, our operator, hung back for a while. He said he was afraid the chief's face might break the camera. It didn't. But I am inclined to think that it was a near thing. In justice to the chief, I feel I ought to add that not quite all his ugliness was natural to him, so to speak. It was due in part to his having been pitted by smallpox. He was badly pitted, too. His face would have made a very good cribbage-board, but regarded as a face it was a failure. Even, however, if he had never been pitted, I am inclined to think he would have been sufficiently ugly to have carried off the wooden spoon at even the least exacting of beauty shows. He reminded me of the ugly man immortalised by Mark Twain, who, after having the smallpox ever so bad, was just as handsome as he was before.

In addition to being very ugly, the chief was also very dirty. So were all his people. In fact the Sumbu Tschokossi are about the filthiest lot of savages I have come across up till now. It was only twenty minutes to the river, yet even the younger men's bodies were always grey with ashes, sand, and dirt, and covered with vermin. The women were much more clean to look upon, probably because it was their custom to bathe each day when they went to the river in the morning for water. The younger girls wear brightly polished brass armlets round their wrists and forearms, and the contrasts of these ornaments with their ebony skins, and the green leaves they wear before and behind, is exceedingly effective. Some of the very young unmarried ones are not unbeautiful, but they soon lose their good looks, owing to the hard work they have to do. They are at it from morning till night, carrying water, cooking, hoeing in the yam fields, bringing in fuel from the forest, while the men laze about in the sun, and breed flies. One thing, however; this incessant labour renders them very strong, and strength is a valued asset in a Tschokossi woman. A weak one stands a poor chance in the matrimonial market. "Amongst us, men choose their wives for strength, not for beauty," remarked one burly savage to me. I have heard somewhat similar sentiments expressed amongst our working classes in Europe. And after all, what is the philosophy of these savages regarding marriage but a primitive form of eugenics?

As for the men, they strongly resent the imputation of laziness. "We are fighters," remarked the old chief when I gently tackled him on the subject, "not workers. It is for the women to work, whilst we protect them against outside interference." "But," I said, "there is no fighting to be done now; the land is at peace." "Who knows?" was his somewhat cryptic reply.

If, however, these far northern tribes, the Tschokossi, the Gourma, and others, resent being called lazy, they regard as flattering the charges of treachery and cowardice that are brought against them. They look upon the shooting of a foe from behind with a poisoned arrow, not only as legitimate warfare, but as the very best and highest form of warfare. It is their business to stalk an enemy, to see and not be seen, to pounce upon him unawares; a proceeding which, after all, is recommended by all writers on strategy, and practised by all beasts of prey. It is a fact, too, that a certain kind of cowardice requires a certain kind of courage. The prowling savage who climbs the walls of a Tschokossi village at dead of night in order to take pot-shots at the sleeping inhabitants with his poisoned arrows, is not exactly a coward, however reprehensible his conduct may appear judged from a civilised standpoint. For having accomplished his object, he has to make good his retreat, with an even chance that by that time the whole village is in an uproar, and I can conceive of no less desirable place wherein to be trapped by a score or so of vengeful enemies, than the well-like space between the huts and the inclosing walls.

I had many talks with the old chief regarding these and other matters, and once he made some sort of an odd remark which caused me to laugh heartily. "Oh then," he said, looking mildly astonished, "you can laugh." "Of course I can laugh," I answered. "Why not?" "Well," he replied, "I have never seen a white woman before, but I have always been told that they are unable to laugh."

Although the chief, and in a lesser degree his people, were fairly friendly with me, they continued up to the end to show themselves suspicious and distrustful of our boys, and this distrust showed itself in many curious, not to say inconvenient ways. For example, it was our custom while on trek to allow our personal staff, numbering about fifteen, three-halfpence a day extra subsistence money. With this they used, on arriving at a village, to club together, and engage a woman to buy their provisions and to cook for them; in fact, to board them during their stay there. But in Sumbu no woman could be got to undertake the job, nor would they even sell them provisions until they had exchanged their coined money for salt, the usual currency of the country. With this they were at length able to buy provisions, millet-meal, yams, &c. Then, however, a new difficulty presented itself. They had no one to cook for them, nor had they any cooking utensils of their own. So they came to me, and asked me to lend them one of our pots. Naturally, I declined; I am not over squeamish, but to eat after natives! Faugh! On the other hand, I could not stand by and see the poor fellows go hungry. So off I went to the village, and begged the chief to let me have the loan of a pot. After a lot of palaver he consented, and Schomburgk, at my request, allowed his gun-bearer to be struck off duty in the afternoons in order to cook for them. This arrangement worked fairly well, for natives eat only once a day, of an evening. Then they consume an enormous meal. One can actually see their stomach "swell wisibly," like the Fat Boy in Pickwick.

No sooner had this difficulty been settled, however, than another one arose. Owing to the boycott of the villagers, the boys could not even get the use of a hut to sleep in at night, and had to camp out in the open. They complained to me, and I told Schomburgk about it, but found him unsympathetic. "If the Sumbu people won't lend them a hut, they won't, and there's an end of it. I have no right to force them to. Besides, it is good to sleep out in Africa. I've slept out hundreds of nights when hunting elephants, and it never did me any harm, nor will it them. Tell them I said so." I did as I was told, and the boys had to sleep out for the rest of the time we remained in the neighbourhood. But they didn't like it one bit.

In fact, towards the end of our stay here, some of them began to get somewhat surly and discontented, not like their usual selves. One reason for this probably was that, on quitting Mangu, their women had all been left behind there. This had been done at their own wish, as they said they were afraid to take them up-country to where we were going. Nevertheless, they no doubt felt the separation keenly, for natives temporarily divorced from their womenkind are like ships without their rudders. They had all taken it for granted, by the way, that I too was to be left behind in Mangu, and seemed greatly surprised and anxious when they heard that I was going to accompany the caravan. Indeed, just as we were about to start, all our personal boys came to me in a body, and implored me not to go, saying that the Tschokossi of the north were dangerous, and that they feared for the safety of their "little white mother." I was greatly touched by their solicitude, but of course I was unable to accede to their request, even had I a mind to, which I had not. Later on I overheard Asmani, Schomburgk's personal servant, while discussing the journey with another boy, exclaim: "Well, I shall be glad when our little white mother is safe again on board the steamer."

Another source of dissatisfaction, was that there was a shortage of caravan food. For one thing, our European flour began to give out, and we ourselves were obliged to eat bread made half of millet-meal and half of flour. I didn't like it a bit. But for the Fulani, in fact, we should have been, if not exactly on short rations, at all events on restricted ones. These used to bring us, when they came with our daily allowance of milk, huge calabashes of buttermilk, which the boys used to purchase, and mix with their millet-meal, thereby obtaining a welcome addition to their diet.

Meanwhile their clothing, what they had of it, was going from bad to worse. Messa had to cut off the legs of his trousers above the knees, in order to patch the portion covering that part of his anatomy on which boys are birched at school. Alfred, the interpreter, was in an even worse fix, because he had no trouser-legs left to utilise after this fashion. He complained to me, saying that his appearance was not decent. I was bound to agree with him as to this, but pointed out to him that I could do nothing in the matter just then, as we had no spare clothing with the caravan. When we got back to Mangu, I told him, Schomburgk was going to rig out all our personal staff with new clothes; in the meantime I suggested to him that he should wear a "lavelap," which is a West African term for a whole piece of cloth wrapped round the body. "Oh dear no, little mother," he replied, in deeply shocked tones. "An interpreter cannot wear a 'lavelap,' he must at least have a pair of trousers."

Next day I noticed that Messa, who was always a bit of a dandy, had covered his bare legs, from the ankles to above the knees, with strips of white cloth dipped in washing-blue, and arranged like putties. I rallied him on his "improved" appearance, but he only smiled feebly and somewhat sadly, so I asked him what was the matter. Thereupon he confided to me that he was worried about his wife, who was lying ill at Mangu. This was the same young lady whom, it will be remembered, he had gone back to Kamina to fetch while we were on the road up from there to Sokode, and her illness, or at all events the undue prolongation of it, was largely his own fault.

She was always bright and bonny until we got to Paratau. Then, when we resumed our march, she seemed to have changed altogether. She was always tired, and appeared as if trying to elude our observation. Messa, too, got sad and sulky, so one day, after we had camped, I went over to their quarters to try and find out what was the matter. I found the girl sitting disconsolate outside their hut, crying, and nursing a frightfully swollen and ulcerated leg. I went and told Schomburgk, who examined it, and at once diagnosed it as a very bad and greatly neglected case of filaria, otherwise guinea-worm. These dangerous parasites burrow under the human skin, generally in the feet or legs, and the female lays eggs, giving rise to abscesses, and also causing grave functional disturbances. They are removed by very slowly twining them round a stick, and the natives assert, and apparently with some measure of truth, that if the worm is broken in the process, the death of the person affected will ensue. Messa had known all along, it appeared, what his wife was suffering from, but fearing to have her sent back, had tried to conceal it from us. Schomburgk gave the poor girl some mercurial ointment, and afterwards several of the parasites were removed in the manner described above, many of the natives being exceedingly skilful in this matter. Now, it appeared, he was anxious, fearing a relapse. As a matter of fact, on our return to Mangu, we found the patient practically convalescent.

CHAPTER XIII
BACK TO MANGU

While in camp at Sumbu I had another adventure with a puff-adder, which is, as I have explained elsewhere, one of the most venomous snakes in all Africa. We were sitting outside my tent after dinner, enjoying our coffee and cigarettes as usual, when my personal boy had occasion to go inside on some errand or other. A moment or two later there came the sound of a wild commotion from within. The boy was threshing about with a stick, and calling out excitedly something we could not understand. We jumped up, and the boy came running out, dangling the dead reptile gingerly at the end of his stick. He had, he explained, nearly stepped on it in the dark, and he showed us where it had been coiled, right opposite my toilet table, where I should have stood on entering. The curious instinct natives have about snakes, had warned him of his danger, but had I gone in I should almost certainly have trodden on it; and there would probably have been an end to me for good and all.

Soon after this incident a piece of very welcome news reached us. A native runner came trotting up to our camp with a letter in a cleft-stick, and wrapped in the usual oilskin. It proved to be a cablegram from the Moving Picture Sales Agency in London—the firm that is handling our films—telling us that the first lot of pictures had been received and developed, and that they had turned out very well indeed. Naturally, we were all immensely pleased and delighted, for as we had no proper facilities for developing our cinematograph negatives where we were, we had no means of judging how they were going to turn out, and Schomburgk, with memories of the failure that had attended his efforts during his former expedition, had been all along very anxious about the matter. Now all our apprehensions were set at rest, our spirits soared high, and we opened a bottle of champagne in honour of the occasion. The cablegram had only left London thirty-six hours previously. It had been re-transmitted by telephone from Lome to Mangu, whence it had been dispatched by relays of runners to our camp. The date stamp showed that it had left Mangu at ten o'clock that morning, and it reached us at eight o'clock in the evening, the distance from Mangu to Sumbu being approximately fifty-five miles. When it is remembered that there is no proper road between the two places, nor even a trail in many parts, that the heat in the daytime up here is so terrific that even the natives ordinarily do not care to move about in it, and that the letter had to be carried up hill and down dale, as well as across rivers and streams, it must be admitted that the performance was a good one. It had been brought to us by what is known as "chief's mail," an institution peculiar to Togo. The letter, message, telegram, or whatever it may be, is wrapped in oilskin by the clerk at the issuing office, firmly fixed into the cleft of a stick, and handed to a native runner, who at once dashes off with it to the nearest village along the line of the route it is intended it shall take. Arrived there, he calls out at the top of his voice "Chief's mail!" and hands it to the first native he happens to meet, who at once starts off with it at top speed to the next village, where the operation is repeated. In this way messages can be dispatched to practically any part of the country with marvellous celerity.

Our principal reason for remaining at Sumbu was because we wanted to photograph some pictures of hippopotami, which were reported to be fairly numerous in the Oti hereabouts. Schomburgk wanted to secure a good picture of the ordinary hippo, in order to show the contrast between these big fellows and the pygmy hippopotamus which he discovered in Liberia, and also to show how the one is practically always cooped up in some big pool, while the other, the little one, roams at will all over the place in the forest; otherwise he did not trouble greatly about game pictures. Day after day passed by, however, and we saw none, and Schomburgk began to get anxious. Eventually he sent natives out to look for them, promising a reward to whoever succeeded. That evening a couple of Tschokossi came in, and reported that they had located five of them some few miles up-stream, near a village called Panscheli. This, of course, was welcome news, and very early the following morning we set out for Panscheli, taking our camera with us. We crossed the river, which was fairly deep and infested with crocodiles, without mishap. I was being carried in a hammock, being a bit run down, and I confess to being a little bit nervous, as I was being carried by boys who were new to the business, and didn't know how to handle the hammock properly. Besides this, the responsibility of having to carry a white woman for the first time made them over careful, and their progress was slow and tedious. Proper hammock boys, like those who carried me from Atakpame to Sokode, are exceedingly swift, smooth, and easy in all their movements. They "break step," like stretcher-bearers are trained to do, and sing a curious sort of chanting melody as they trot along, which is very apt to lull one to sleep.

Altogether, what with the crossing, and one or two enforced halts on the way, the journey to Panscheli occupied about two and a half hours, and a little way beyond the village, in a big and very deep pool, we came up with the hippos—one big bull, one big cow, and three smaller ones. This was the first time I had ever seen hippopotami in a wild state, and Schomburgk was rather looking forward to my being impressed at the sight. As a matter of fact, however, I wasn't a bit impressed. The ungainly brutes only poked their heads above water at intervals to breathe, then down again. I was far more interested in those I had seen in captivity at the "Zoo" in Hamburg, and in Regent's Park, London.

So shy and wary were these Oti hippos, that even now we had tracked them to their lair our operator found it impossible to take pictures of them. So at length, hot, tired, and disgusted, we gave it up as a bad job, and Schomburgk proceeded to vent his anger on the crocodiles, shooting six or seven of them. He absolutely refused, however, to shoot any of the hippos, saying that they were harmless creatures, not like the beastly crocs, and that anyway it wouldn't be sport, but butchery, because the poor brutes, although they were in their native element, had not got the run of the river, but were cooped up in the pool, and had to come to the surface to breathe. Eventually, however, he so far relented as to give Hodgson permission to shoot one of the two big hippos, telling him to remain behind for that purpose. "Perhaps," he remarked, "you will never get another chance, and anyhow it will do for meat for the boys."

Meanwhile, on an island in the middle of the pool, I saw the most extraordinary sight I had ever beheld, an incident that I had often heard about, but never really believed. The low sandy islet was covered thick with innumerable water-fowl: teal, egrets, herons, and so forth. And right in amongst them were five enormous crocodiles, lying basking in the sun with their mouths wide open, and numbers of little white birds running in and out, and pecking with their tiny beaks at the interstices between the big cruel teeth. We promptly tried to cinema the scene, and again we were disappointed; in fact our luck seemed dead out on this particular day. The crackling of the dried grass alarmed the reptiles, and they promptly closed their cavernous mouths, and slid off the island into the river. Whether any of the poor little birds were accidentally trapped inside, under the—for the crocs—altogether exceptional circumstances of the case, I do not know, but Schomburgk said not, as these birds are exceedingly quick in their movements, and the crocodiles are careful not to hurt them. The little creatures are generally known throughout Western Africa as "tick-birds," and they do not go only with crocodiles, but with elephants, rhinoceri, buffaloes, &c., as well as tame cattle and sheep. They feed on the vermin, and especially on the ticks, that infest these creatures; hence their name. Hence, also, the fact that they are never wantonly interfered with by their hosts. Even the stupid crocodile has sense enough to know that it is good for him to be rid of vermin, and to have his great ugly yellow teeth picked and cleansed for him by these indefatigable little scavengers.

Panscheli, where we halted for a brief spell on our way back to Sumbu, is a prettily situated little village of the usual frowsy Tschokossi type. It stands on the left bank of the Oti going up-stream, Sumbu being on the right bank, and is surrounded by broad belts of palm-trees. Curiously enough, the natives hereabouts seem to make no use whatever of these valuable trees.

Very late that afternoon, while we were resting at our base camp at Sumbu, Hodgson came back and reported that he had shot the two big hippos, leaving the three smaller ones. In acting thus, he explained, he had not wilfully disobeyed Schomburgk's instructions, which were, it will be remembered, to shoot only one, sparing the other four. He had fallen into an error which, Schomburgk remarked, was quite excusable on the part of a young hunter unaccustomed to the ways of these animals. He had shot at one of the big hippos, which sunk, fatally wounded. Directly afterwards the other big fellow popped up, and Hodgson, thinking it to be the same hippo, fired again. Afterwards, when, on coming back to see whether they had risen, he found, not one only, but two dead hippopotami drifting on the surface of the pool, he was greatly surprised and disgusted.

Next day we rode over to Panscheli to see the two hippos, taking our boys with us to get them out. We found the carcases floating on the surface of the pool, surrounded by innumerable crocodiles biting and tearing at them. Despite of this our natives plunged fearlessly into the water amongst them, and fixing long stout coils of native coir rope round the bodies, soon had them hauled up on dry land. A hippo when shot sinks immediately, but only takes about two hours to rise. A crocodile, when fatally hit, jumps clean out of the water, then falls back, and also immediately sinks. But it takes much longer to rise than the hippo; thirty-six hours, or even longer, according to the state of the weather. Consequently none of those shot by Schomburgk on the previous day were visible, but on the island were above a score of the loathsome creatures, gorged to repletion, their jaws wide open, and their living toothpicks, the little tick-birds, to wit, running in and out, and cleansing their mouths from the remnants of their disgusting meal. By the way, Schomburgk tells me that the popular idea regarding the strength and toughness of the "scaly defensive armour" of the crocodile is all moonshine. The so-called "armour" is not really armour at all, but merely a leather-like integument, and a modern bullet will penetrate it almost as easily as it would so much blotting-paper.

While we were up at the island, discussing the chances of a cinema picture, our boys were cutting up the dead hippos. I never witnessed a more disgusting sight. The extremities had been gnawed off by the crocodiles during the night, but the massive trunks, and the huge heads, were intact, and the natives sliced up the meat, entrails and all, and squabbled over the tit-bits, their faces, hands, and bodies smothered in blood. I wanted to get away from the horrible scene, and at my request Schomburgk took me for a short stroll up the river. Here, in a bend on a shallow sand-spit, we came unexpectedly on a number of big turtles. At our approach they popped up their heads like so many snakes, then bobbed down again as swiftly. Schomburgk succeeded, however, in shooting one, and I had visions of turtle soup for dinner. But it sank, and could not be recovered. That night our boys gorged themselves on hippo meat, and the next morning croton oil was at a premium.

On January 16th we broke camp and started southward for Mangu. This is the first stage on our return journey to London, and Schomburgk, at my suggestion, utilised the occasion to take a "travel picture"—this is the technical trade term—showing the making up and starting of the caravan, striking the tents, porters taking up loads, and so forth. It made a very interesting film, but in order to photograph it, we had to get up much later than usual, and also delay the start, so as to get the light, so that our first day's stage was an unusually short one.

We are now marching back across the Oti flats. The season is advancing, and each day that passes, the heat increases in intensity. The very air seems to palpitate with it, and even by eight o'clock in the morning the sun's rays are so powerful that to sit in one's saddle exposed to them is to endure a mild sort of torture. We camped that night in the bush, far from any human habitation, under a big tree. It was near to where I had seen the marabou on my way up, but these beautiful creatures had now all disappeared. The burning sun had drunk up most of the water in the "vley," reducing it to the dimensions of a good-sized puddle, and the little depression, so full of bird life the week before, was now silent and deserted. In a comparatively little while the rainy season will set in, and soon afterwards all this district where we now are will be under water, and consequently of course quite impassable for man or beast. The antelope, which now cover the flats, will retire to the higher ground away from the floods, and only the hippopotami and the crocodiles, and of course the birds, will disport themselves in and about what will be in effect a vast inland sea of fresh water.

Next day we resumed our march, striking a new track a little nearer the river bank. On the way we passed many big heaps of oyster shells. These river oysters are small, but very sweet and nice, and in the season they are consumed in enormous numbers by the natives, who come down to the Oti at this spot on purpose to feast upon them, returning to their homes in a few weeks' time as fat as butter. The native does not trouble about an oyster knife in order to open what journalists of the old school used to term the "succulent bivalves." He just dumps the oysters down near a big fire, and waits for them to open of their own accord. Some of these midden-like piles of old shells are of vast extent, and are probably the accumulation of many years, possibly of centuries. These shells are now used by the Mangu people for making lime, and Schomburgk used to note the whereabouts of the heaps so that they might be able to come up and fetch them away later on.

I was surprised and uneasy at observing, soon after we camped to-day, that several Tschokossi savages, each with his bow and sheaf of poisoned arrows, were prowling about in the bush in the distance, evidently watching us, and taking stock of our movements. We tried to get in touch with them, in order to find out what their intentions were, but directly we made a movement in their direction, they as promptly retired, to reappear once more when we withdrew, and resume their silent spying upon us. It was somewhat disconcerting, but Schomburgk did not attach any very great importance to it. No doubt, he remarked, they were suspicious of our intentions, wondering what we were doing so far away from the beaten track; since even in the more remote parts of Togo, like that where we now are, there are certain well-defined caravan routes, and the natives, treacherous and cunning themselves, are always mistrustful of any white strangers who quit these recognised travel lanes, in order to adventure themselves into the bush on either side.

Nevertheless, when night fell and the camp was still, I felt strangely uneasy. I could not sleep, and the story of the white man so nearly slain in his tent by the poisoned arrows of these treacherous savages kept recurring to my mind again and again. At first a camp in a typical African bush is strangely silent, but after an hour or so there invariably begins a regular succession of noises, continuing till just before dawn. I heard, and perforce listened to them all, on that nuit blanche. First it was a horse neighing, then a hyena yowling; monkeys started chattering in the trees, a bush buck was bellowing to its mate. A little later on an old owl started "ter-hoot! ter-hoot!" somewhere near, and some crested cranes answered her with their rasping "honk! honk!" like an asthmatical motor horn. My tent was pitched under some dwarf trees, from which there proceeded a continual crackling of dry branches. Hark! Surely there are human fingers stealthily groping about the outside of my frail dwelling. I creep to the flap and look fearfully out. Then laugh softly. It is only a tree lizard that has fallen from above, and now runs pattering about the taut canvas. The moonlight is flooding the country, and all the landscape for miles around is as a level unbroken plain of snow, or frosted silver, save that here and there a huge mis-shapen baobab rears its contorted form and casts weird black shadows athwart the white brightness. I lie down and close my eyes, determining to sleep, to be startled into wakefulness again this time by the low gurgling cough of a leopard. I go to the tent flap once more, and call softly to the horses, who are commencing to neigh uneasily. As I stand there huge bat-like moths circle about with whirring wings, or dash blindly into my averted face; while from the river below comes an endless, monotonous chorus from the throats of thousands of bull-frogs—"qua-ah! quah-ah! quah-ah!" a million times repeated. At last I feel myself drifting into slumberland. The weary eyelids close peacefully over aching eyeballs. The tired brain ceases to concern itself automatically with things past or with things present. Have I slept, or have I been awake all the time, and only imagined the sleep that came not? I am not sure. But I am at all events certain that I am now wide awake, and that the camp is in an uproar. One of the horses had got loose, and being a stallion, as indeed they all are, "goes for" the one next him. The two fight furiously. The others start kicking and squealing. The boys rush out, stumbling over the tent ropes in their excitement, and cursing fluently meanwhile in half a dozen different dialects. And above the din I can distinguish Schomburgk's voice, angrily inquiring of the horse boys whose animal it is that has broken loose, and promising punishment for the careless delinquent later on. That morning at dawn comes to my tent the erring one, to beg me to intercede for him with the "master." I promised to do my best. But Schomburgk is adamant. "An example must be made," he says. "It is sheer downright carelessness. No horse can break loose like that if it is properly tethered. Some night we shall have the lot stampeded; or, worse still, one of them will be fatally injured." Suddenly a happy thought strikes me. "It was a leopard," I explain, lying fluently, for the leopard incident happened hours before the horse broke loose. "I heard the brute myself." "Oh, of course, that alters the case," he says. "A horse might conceivably get loose if frightened by a prowling leopard. I will let the fellow off with a talking to." So that little affair ends satisfactorily to all concerned, and I congratulate myself on the fact that although I have lied, I have at least lied for an unselfish object, and to some purpose. Only later on did I learn that Schomburgk knew I was fibbing all the while, since he was perfectly well aware that a leopard will not go anywhere near a horse; only he was glad of an excuse to remit the punishment without injury to discipline.

I start the day's march with aching eyes and head, due to lack of sleep, and an aching heart, also, for I am obsessed with a curious feeling of misfortune waiting for us ahead. In vain I try to shake it off, and when presently a native runner is seen approaching with a letter carried in the familiar cleft stick, I feel as certain as certain can be that he is the bearer of bad news. And so it turns out. The envelope, on being taken from its oilskin wrapper and opened, proves to contain a telegram from Kamina to tell us that Baron Codelli von Fahnenfeld's house there had been burned to the ground, and that all our heavy baggage which we had left stored in it had gone up in smoke. This was indeed terrible news. I cried nearly all day and the best part of the next night. Practically the whole of my personal belongings, including about £200 worth of jewellery, my books and papers, the little presents and souvenirs that I had bought at Madeira and elsewhere out of my hard-earned money as presents for the dear ones at home, my best and daintiest frocks and underwear, to say nothing of other valued odds and ends—all! all! nothing but dust and ashes! It was really too awful. Schomburgk's loss was even more serious than mine, but he took it more philosophically. His manuscripts had gone, his private letters and papers, his army commissions, his medals and decorations, photographs, &c., representing fifteen years' camera work in the African wilds, his diaries, his clothes and uniforms, and a whole lot of other valuable property, much of which can never be replaced. We had intended to camp for the night at a place called Magu, but were so disgusted with fate, and things in general, that, in order to tire ourselves out and keep from brooding we pushed on as far as Najo. Here we camped, spending most of our time lamenting, and the next day, still very much down in the dumps, we rode into Mangu.

CHAPTER XIV
THROUGH THE KONKOMBWA COUNTRY

I found that the change in temperature at Mangu was very marked indeed since we had left it not so very many days ago. The harmattan was lifting, and the nights, as well as the days, had begun to get very oppressive, so that I had no longer any difficulty in believing the stories that had been told me concerning the tropical intensity of the heat in the rainy season.

This harmattan, by the way, is a bit of a meteorological mystery. In the reference books it is generally described as a hot dry wind, blowing from the interior deserts of Africa, and laden with reddish dust. This may be true as regards its inception, but to describe the harmattan one encounters in Togoland as a "wind," is to convey an altogether wrong impression. It more nearly resembles a dry fog, and is yellowish rather than red, rendering the light effects most unsuitable for photography of any kind, and especially so for cinematographic photography. Its advent is, however, welcomed by the residents of the colony, for it tempers the heat of the sun's rays in a most effective, not to say extraordinary, manner. Directly it lifts, the temperature goes up with a bound, and the heat, which, while it lasts, is at least tolerable, becomes well-nigh insupportable.

My second stay in Mangu was not particularly eventful. The men went out every day taking ethnological pictures. This was in the morning, of course, before the worst of the heat began. I put in the time riding round with Captain von Hirschfeld, watching the progress of the building of the new station, and inspecting the soldiers on parade. There are a great many soldiers in Mangu just now, as all the reserves have been called up for training. It is wonderful to see the progress these reservists make, not to mention the raw recruits, in the course of their training. This is limited to ten days, but into that brief period of time there is crammed almost an infinity of hard work. Their ordinary hours of drill are ten a day. No white soldier could, or would, stand it. But the black man seems absolutely to enjoy it.

We took the opportunity of the reserves being called up to film the lives of these native soldiers, photographing them not only while they were at drill and at work, but also while they were at play, and resting in the bosom—or rather bosoms—of their families. Family life, by the way, plays a big part in the existence of the black troops of the Togo hinterland. There is no "marrying off the strength" for the Togo "Tommy." Practically they are all married, and "with leave," and most of them are very much married. An English Tommy, when he has saved up money, and feels like enjoying himself, goes on furlough, and buys beer. The Togo Tommy stops at home, and buys a wife. He has to ask permission first, of course, but this is practically always granted, provided he has enough funds standing to his credit. The cost of a wife in Mangu is about sixteen shillings; in other places it is dearer, in some few cheaper. It all depends on the number of unmarried girls there are available; in other words, on the law of supply and demand. Even in Mangu, however, the price varies. A young and attractive girl of thirteen or fourteen may possibly be worth a sovereign. Girls marry young in West Africa. On the other hand, a strong and experienced woman who is a good cook and housewife, has also a good market value. Practically every soldier in Togoland buys as many wives as he can afford. The German Government—very wisely, I think—does not attempt to interfere with native domestic customs, of which polygamy is one of the oldest and most deeply-rooted. The women do not object in the least. In fact, they rather like it, for many hands make light work, and the more wives a man has to minister to his wants, the less arduous are the duties any single one of them is called upon to perform. Besides, in the days when inter-tribal fighting was the normal state of affairs in Togoland, the women naturally greatly outnumbered the men; for although in no single one of these perpetual little wars was the death roll on either side considerable, the sum total of fatal casualties soon mounted up, and the adult males were, therefore, always in a minority as compared with the adult females. Consequently, if monogamy were the rule, many Togo girls would have been, in the old days, condemned to a life of celibacy, and a celibate female amongst savages is unthinkable.

But I find I am wandering off the track. Soon I shall find myself writing a Togoland "Golden Bough." Let us return to our sheep—in other words, our films. Most of those taken at Mangu, as I have already stated, were ethnological ones, and many of them created the liveliest interest when they were shown later on in London at special meetings of the various learned societies, such as, for instance, the Royal Anthropological Institute and the Royal Geographical Society. But we also utilised this, our second stay in Mangu, to photograph some of the kind best described as semi-dramatic.

One of these was of very special interest to everybody there, natives as well as whites, because it was an attempt to reproduce for the cinema what will presently become Togo history. The incident chosen was the attack on the old station at Mangu by the Tschokossi, mentioned in a previous chapter, and amongst the hundreds of supers, soldiers as well as natives, who took part in the film production, were many men who had been in the actual fighting. We followed the true course of events as nearly as possible in our mimic representation, the authorities kindly placing at our disposal for the purpose practically the entire Mangu garrison. In the film, as finally completed and screened, two patrols are seen going out, one in the direction of Tamberma Fort. The latter is attacked, overwhelmed, and cut to pieces, only one badly wounded man escaping. The other patrol, going farther afield, scouts up to a big native town, and finds the savages there dancing their tribal war dances, yelling death to the Europeans, and generally working themselves into a frenzy. The patrol returns to the fort to report, and on the way picks up the wounded survivor from the other party, who tells them of the fate that has overtaken his comrades. The officer in charge of the fort sends a letter to the commanding officer at headquarters asking for assistance, but before the relief arrives the natives swarm up and attack the fort. The garrison is hard pressed, and the officer in charge, uncertain as to whether his first letter has got through to headquarters, calls for a volunteer to take a second letter. A native soldier steps forward, and quits the beleaguered fort disguised as a Hausa. By taking careful cover he gets through the lines of the besiegers without being noticed, delivers his letter to the officer commanding, whom he meets on the road, and all ends happily, the final scene showing the assault, followed by the arrival of the relieving force and the dispersal of the assailants. Curiously enough, we had considerable difficulty in getting the natives to act as supers in this film. They remembered the real fighting, and having a wholesome fear of the soldiers, born of actual experience, they were extremely loath to come to close quarters with them.

On January 27th the Kaiser's birthday was celebrated in Mangu, sports and games being organised for the natives, who took the keenest interest in them. A water race for women caused great excitement. They had to run a certain distance, carrying calabashes of water, the prizes going to those who succeeded in spilling least. A blind-fold pot-smashing competition was also the cause of a lot of fun. In the afternoon Captain von Hirschfeld distributed the prizes to the winners, and I also gave away some pieces of silk, cloth, and beads as supplementary ones.

One morning an exceedingly smart-looking Hausa, from the heart of the true Sudan, came into the station with a wild ostrich for sale. It was a very fine bird, the biggest in fact, Schomburgk said, that he had ever seen, and he promptly bought it. The bird had been tightly tied up for some considerable while, and as a result it was all sore and chafed about the legs. Schomburgk therefore set him loose. And the bird showed its gratitude by immediately bolting. The result was that we had to organise a party to recapture him. It was by no means bad fun, however, and besides we were able to film an ostrich hunt on the veldt. Everybody nearly enjoyed it first rate, including, I verily believe, the ostrich. The one exception was our camera man, who soon ran himself out of breath, and was as limp as a wet rag by the time we had finished. Before this little episode he had been very keen on game pictures, but it was noticeable that afterwards he studiously avoided referring to them. However, he made a lovely film of this one, and we were highly pleased, naturally.

We were due to leave Mangu for good on February 1st, and the last few days were spent in packing up, sorting out our stores for the downward journey, and disposing of such as we no longer required. A lot of tinned stuff we gave away, and one of the horses that was ill Schomburgk presented to the white non-commissioned officer at the station. Our one hundred loads that we had started with had dwindled by now to about forty.

Suddenly Schomburgk announced a most terrible and alarming discovery. He had run out of cigarettes. A package supposed to contain a reserve supply was found on being opened to be filled with packets of tea, sugar, and other groceries. He flew to the telephone and sent an urgent message to Sokode for a fresh supply, to be despatched by special runner. Meanwhile he growled and grumbled like a bear with a sore head. Nor did matters improve greatly when the cigarettes at length arrived. The Sokode people had run out of the best Egyptians—his usual smoke—which retail out there at sixpence a dozen, so they had sent him a very inferior sort, known locally as "battle-axe brand," and costing about sevenpence for fifty. They have been christened "battle-axes," Schomburgk explained, in between two long strings of swear words, because two of them will knock you on the head and kill you. On the same principle the Western American cowboy dubs the vile spirit sold in the frontier cattle towns "forty-rod whisky." You walk forty rods after drinking a glass of it, then you drop down dead. I cannot, of course, speak as to the whisky; but the cigarettes fully deserved their evil name. Navvy shag was simply "not in it" with them. When Schomburgk started to smoke one, everybody ran away. I am told they are exported to Togo from England for native consumption. All I can say is, I pity the natives.

At last the day of parting came. I can hardly find words to express how sorry I felt to leave Mangu and our dear little home. Captain von Hirschfeld, who had shown us such splendid hospitality all through our stay there, rode three miles with us on the return journey. We are not travelling back along the same route we came up by, but are setting a course some distance to the westward of it, so as to break new ground. Our first camp had been fixed at a place called Unyogo, and as the distance was comparatively short, Schomburgk and I did not quit Mangu until three o'clock in the afternoon, having previously sent our carriers on ahead to pitch the tents, and get everything ready. Our boy we took with us on horseback to carry our water-bottles, but he didn't keep up with us, and somehow he managed to tumble off his horse. Naturally, the riderless animal promptly bolted back for its comfortable stable at Mangu, with the boy hot a-foot after it. As a result we had no water to drink during the stage, which was a very hot one, with no shade whatever and clouds of dust. I suffered considerably from thirst. So did Schomburgk, who, however, was able to console himself by smoking "battle-axes" and swearing at intervals, both palliatives denied to me. It was a glad moment for both of us when at length we caught sight of our green tents under the trees outside Unyogo.

Hodgson was already there, having gone on ahead on his bicycle. He was greatly excited, and would hardly give us time to get a drink of water, or a cup of tea, before plunging into a narrative of what he somewhat grandiloquently termed his "adventure." It appeared that he had been pedalling silently along on his bicycle, when a covey of grouse flew up almost from under his front wheel, and cannoned into one another in their fright and excitement with so great violence that six of them fell to the ground. Dismounting, he picked up five of the birds quite dead; the sixth was only stunned, and, recovering itself, fluttered off into the bush. The incident was certainly a remarkable one, almost incredible indeed, for grouse are notoriously hard birds to hit. But there they were, all five of them, mute witnesses to the truth of his story. None of them bore any shot, or other wound, to account for their deaths; and besides, Hodgson had no gun with him. We cooked them for supper, and very delicious they were. Afterwards, we sat outside our camp in the moonlight talking and laughing, and in high spirits at the thought of going home—all but Schomburgk, who declared that the trip was far too short a one. "Some day," he remarked, "we will come out here again, film some more pictures, and return home the other way." "Other way?" I inquire dubiously. "Yes," he replied airily, "round by Timbuctu, and north across the Sahara. It will be grand fun, and we shall get some unique pictures." "Yes-s!" I reply feebly. And no more is said. But I think a lot.

That night a woman palaver started right outside my tent. I was awakened at dead of night by the cries of a female in distress—shouting, howling, and sobbing. Jumping up, and throwing on a wrap, I hurried outside, imagining that murder was being done at the very least. The noise was being made by the wife of one of our soldiers, who declared, on being questioned, that her husband had tried to kill her. Schomburgk, whom the noise had also awakened, and who now put in an appearance, promptly sent for the man, and cross-examined first him and then his wife. The true facts of the case were thus elicited. It turned out that the woman, having had a wordy quarrel with her husband—no blows were struck—had announced her intention of forthwith going back to Mangu. Her husband had, quite properly, prevented her from carrying out her intention. Whereupon she had rushed out of their hut, and over to our camp, where she had started howling and yelling, hoping thereby to get her husband punished. Had Schomburgk been an inexperienced African traveller, unused to the little wiles of native women, she might possibly have succeeded in her design. But he was too old a bird to be caught that way. Instead of punishing the husband, who was obviously not to blame in the matter, he told him to take his wife back to their hut, and if she didn't behave herself, he had his (Schomburgk's) full permission to give her a hiding. I never saw a woman so completely taken aback as this one was when she heard the judgment delivered. Her jaw dropped, her look of hard defiance gave place to one of abject fear, and without a word she followed her lord and master to their joint domicile, where, for the rest of that night at all events, peace reigned once more.