“Finding all my endeavors vain, and that the work of bloodshed was to be carried through to its dreadful end, I determined, at least, to see how all was conducted. At a motion from the doctor, the people became at once quite still. This sudden silence lasted about a minute, when the loud, harsh voice of the doctor was heard: ‘There is a very black woman, who lives in a house’—describing it fully, with its location—‘she bewitched Mpomo.’ Scarce had he ended when the crowd, roaring and screaming like so many hideous beasts, rushed frantically for the place indicated. They seized upon a poor girl named Okandaga, the sister of my good friend and guide Adouma. Waving their weapons over her head, they bore her away toward the water-side. Here she was quickly bound with cords, and then all rushed away to the doctor again.

“As poor Okandaga passed in the hands of her murderers, she saw me, though I thought I had concealed myself from view. I turned my head away, and prayed she might not see me. I could not help her. But presently I heard her cry out, ‘Chally, Chally, do not let me die!’

“It was a moment of terrible agony to me. For a minute I was minded to rush into the crowd, and attempt to rescue the poor victim. But it would have been of not the slightest use; the people were too frantic and crazed to even notice my presence. I should only have sacrificed my own life, without helping her. So I turned away into a corner behind a tree, and—I may confess, I trust—shed bitter tears at my utter powerlessness.

“Presently, silence again fell upon the crowd. Then the harsh voice of the devilish doctor again rang over the town. It seemed to me like the hoarse croak of some death-foretelling raven. ‘There is an old woman in a house’—describing it—‘she also bewitched Mpomo.’

“Again the crowd rushed off. This time they seized a niece of King Quengueza, a noble-hearted and rather majestic old woman. As they crowded about her with flaming eyes and threats of death, she rose proudly from the ground, looked them in the face unflinchingly, and, motioning them to keep their hands off, said, ‘I will drink the mboundou; but woe to my accusers if I do not die.’ Then she, too, was escorted to the river, but without being bound. She submitted to all without a tear, or a murmur for mercy.

“Again, a third time, the dreadful silence fell upon the town, and the doctor’s voice was heard: ‘There is a woman with six children. She lives on a plantation toward the rising sun. She too bewitched Mpomo.’ Again there was a furious shout, and in a few minutes they brought to the river one of Quengueza’s slave-women—a good and much-respected woman—whom also I knew.

“The doctor now approached with the crowd. In a loud voice he recited the crime of which these women were accused. The first taken, Okandaga, had—so he said—some weeks before asked Mpomo for some salt, he being her relative. Salt was scarce, and he had refused her. She had said unpleasant words to him then, and had by sorcery taken his life.

“Then Quengueza’s niece was accused. She was barren, and Mpomo had children. She envied him. Therefore she had bewitched him.

“Quengueza’s slave had asked Mpomo for a looking-glass. He had refused her. Therefore she had killed him with sorcery.

“As each accusation was recited the people broke out into curses. Even the relatives of the poor victims were obliged to join in this. Every one rivalled his neighbor in cursing, each fearful lest lukewarmness in the ceremony should expose him to a like fate.

“Next the victims were put into a large canoe, with the executioners, the doctor, and a number of other people all armed. Then the tam-tams were beaten, and the proper persons prepared the mboundou. Quabi, Mpomo’s eldest brother, held the poisoned cup. At sight of it poor Okandaga began again to cry, and even Quengueza’s niece turned pale in the face—for even the negro face has at such times a pallor, which is quite perceptible. Three other canoes now surrounded that in which the victims were. All were crowded with armed men. Then the mug of mboundou was handed to the old slave-woman, next to the royal niece, and last to Okandaga. As they drank, the multitude shouted: ‘If they are witches, let the mboundou kill them; if they are innocent, let the mboundou go out.’

“It was the most exciting scene of my life. Though horror almost froze my blood, my eyes were riveted upon the spectacle. A dead silence now occurred. Suddenly the slave fell down. She had not touched the boat’s bottom ere her head was hacked off by a dozen rude swords.

“Next came Quengueza’s niece. In an instant her head was off, and the blood was dyeing the waters of the river. Meantime poor Okandaga staggered, and struggled, and cried, vainly resisting the working of the poison in her system. Last of all she fell too, and in an instant her head was hewn off. Then all became confused. An almost random hacking ensued, and in an incredibly short space of time the bodies were cut in small pieces, which were cast into the river.

“When this was done, the crowd dispersed to their houses, and for the rest of the day the town was very silent. Some of these rude people felt that their number, in their already almost extinguished tribe, was becoming less, and the dread of death filled their hearts. In the evening poor Adouma came secretly to my house, to unburden his sorrowing heart to me. He, too, had been compelled to take part in the dreadful scene. He dared not even refrain from joining in the curses heaped upon his poor sister. He dared not mourn publicly for her who was considered so great a criminal.”

The ceremonies which attend the death of members of the Camma tribe are really remarkable. As soon as the end of a man is evidently near, his relations begin to mourn for him, and his head wife, throwing herself on the bed, and encircling the form of her dying husband with her arms, pours out her wailing lamentations, accompanied by the tears and cries of the villagers who assemble round the house. The other wives take their turns in leading the lamentations, and after his death they bewail him in the most pitiful fashion. These pitiful lamentations are partly owing to real sorrow, but there is no doubt that they are also due to the fear lest any one who did not join in the mourning might be accused of having bewitched her husband to death.

For several days they sit on the ground, covered with ashes, their heads shaved, and their clothing torn to rags; and when the body can no longer be kept in the place, the relatives take it to the cemetery, which is usually at some distance down the river. That, for example, of Goumbi was situated at nearly fifty miles from the place. No grave is dug, but the body is laid on the ground, and surrounded with different valuables which belonged to the dead man in his lifetime. The corpses of the chiefs or headmen are placed in rude boxes, but those of ordinary men are not defended in any way whatever.

For at least a year the mourning continues, and, if the dead man has held high rank, it is sometimes continued for two years, during which time the whole tribe wear their worst clothes, and make a point of being very dirty, while the widows retain the shaven head and ashes, and remain in perfect seclusion. At the end of the appointed time, a ceremony called Bola-ivoga is performed, by which the mourning is broken up and the people return to their usual dress.

One of these ceremonies was seen by Du Chaillu. The deceased had been a tolerably rich man, leaving seven wives, a house, a plantation, slaves, and other property, all which was inherited, according to custom, by his elder brother, on whom devolves the task of giving the feast. Great preparations were made for some days previously, large quantities of palm wine being brought to the village, several canoe loads of dried fish prepared, all the best clothes in the village made ready, and every drum, kettle, and anything that could make a noise when beaten being mustered.

On the joyful morning, the widows begin the ceremony by eating a magic porridge, composed by the medicine man, and are then released formally from their widowhood. They then throw off their torn and soiled garments, wash away the ashes with which their bodies had been so long covered, and robe themselves in their best clothes, covering their wrists and ankles with iron and copper jewelry.

While they are adorning their persons, the rest of the people arrange themselves in little groups in front of the houses, and to each group is given an enormous jar of palm wine. At a given signal the drinking begins, and is continued without interruption for some twenty-four hours, during which time dancing, singing, and drum-beating are carried on with furious energy. Next morning comes the final ceremony. A large crowd of men, armed with axes, surround the house formerly occupied by the deceased, and, at a signal from the heir, they rush at once at it, and in a few minutes nothing is left but a heap of fragments. These are heaped up and burned; and when the flames die away, the ceremony is over, and the heir is considered as having entered into possession of the property.

There are one or two miscellaneous customs of the Camma people which are deserving of a brief notice. They seem to be rather quarrelsome among themselves, and when they get into a fight use a most formidable club. This weapon is made of heavy and hard wood, and is nearly seven feet long. The thick end is deeply notched, and a blow from the “tongo,” as it is called, would smash the skull of an European. The native African, however, sustains heavy blows without being much the worse for it; and, although every tongo will be covered with blood and woolly hair, the combatants do not seem to have sustained much injury.

As they fight, they heap on their adversaries every insulting epithet they can think of: “Your chief has the leg of an elephant,” cries one; “Ho! his eldest brother has the neck of a wild ox,” shouts a second; “Ho! you have no food in your village,” bawls a third; and, according to the narrator, the words really seem to do more damage than the blows.

When a canoe starts on a long journey, a curious ceremony is enacted. Each man dips his paddle in the water, slaps it on the surface, raises in the air, and allows one drop of the water to fall into his mouth. After a good deal of singing, shouting, and antic-playing, they settle down to their work, and paddle on steadily for hours. When a chief parts from a guest, he takes his friend’s hands within his own, blows into them, and solemnly invokes the spirits of his ancestors, calling on them to take care of the departing guest.