Early the following morning we struck camp and travelled due north, following native paths. Ascending a low hill, we were unexpectedly greeted by the paramount chief of the district, who rejoiced in the name of Kinuthia, and several of his elders. He presented us, by way of an introduction, with a gourd containing about half a gallon of fresh milk, which we much appreciated, signifying the same in the usual manner. When we regained our breath once more, Kinuthia handed us a note given him by Mr. Hall, a Government officer, who had been up there a month before in order to select a site for the new Government station for the Kenia district; which stated that Kinuthia was a friendly chief, and desired to be recognized as such. We immediately recognized him as such by enlisting him as our guide to the Sagana, which we expected to be able to cross that day.

After a short conversation he took the lead, and on we marched again. He led us across some very rough country for an hour and a half, when we reached a small, swift river, an affluent of the Sagana. We crossed without much trouble by the timely aid of the ragged-looking A’kikuyu noblemen in attendance on their chief. Another two-hour tramp followed, when we at last reached the Sagana, which is really a noble river, abounding in hippo here, as indeed it does everywhere. We saw no crocodiles, though we inquired most anxiously after them.

Kinuthia informed us that the Somalis’ safari had crossed three weeks or a month before. One of Jamah Mahomet’s cows, while fording the river, had been seized by a crocodile and the poor beast’s shoulder torn right out. We did not feel more comfortable on receipt of this intelligence, but we were assured by the natives that they had since poisoned all the crocodiles for a distance of half a mile or so each side of the ford, though they thought it likely that a stray reptile or two might have escaped the general poisoning. We had no choice, however; so we stripped and waded, chin-deep, to the opposite side, about eighty yards distant.

The current was immensely powerful, and the bottom very pebbly and slippery; but we were assisted by some of Kinuthia’s aristocracy, and made the passage in safety. Our men were tired and rather nervous of the current, so for three “makono” (about 1½ yards) of cloth each, we induced fifteen of the aforesaid A’kikuyu noblemen to carry their loads across for them—a task they successfully accomplished, Kinuthia himself not disdaining to discard his royal robes (a goatskin) and earn his piece of cloth.

We breakfasted on the bank, and then made another move, as Kinuthia impressed upon us the fact that an hour’s journey further on was situate the village of Manga, the chief of the Maranga, whose people had an abundance of food for sale, and where we should be able to buy all the supplies we needed without any trouble. He said he would accompany us and introduce us, which we thought was very good of him.

Our way lay through dense plantations, which fully bore out friend Kinuthia’s assertions as to the richness of the district in food-stuffs. In an hour we reached a gently sloping hill, covered with short green grass, on which we pitched our camp. We sent for the chief, who shortly afterwards made his appearance. He seemed a very decent old fellow, and anxious to assist us. We stated our requirements, and he immediately commanded his people to bring us food for sale, and did everything in his power—short of giving anything away himself—to show us that he was friendly and well-disposed towards us.

His son, Koranja, a rather good-looking young fellow for a native, had been down to Mombasa with a safari, and spoke Kiswahili fairly well. He seemed very intelligent. Some of the old men of the tribe also spoke Kiswahili, which, we presumed, they had picked up from passing Arab or Swahili safaris. Kinuthia bade us adieu and returned to his own village the other side of the Sagana, having received from us a suitable present of beads, etc., to gladden his heart, or rather the hearts of his wives.

Large quantities of food then began to arrive, and we decided to stop where we were for a day or two, and buy at least ten days’ rations for the men, before resuming our journey northwards. We retired that night a great deal easier in our minds about the commissariat than we had been for some days.

Next morning the camp was fairly buzzing with natives of all ages and both sexes. Most of them had brought food to sell, but many of them came merely to look at us. Not that we were much to look at; in any civilized community we should have run a great risk of being arrested as vagrants and suspicious characters. El Hakim and George both wore embryo beards, and our appearance generally was rather that of tramps than otherwise. El Hakim had a great affection for a pair of moleskin trousers and a leather jacket, both of which had seen much service. His hat, too, had known better days; but it was an idiosyncrasy of his to wear his clothes on safari work till they were absolutely beyond further mending and patching. On one occasion he was reported to have tramped about the Lykipia plateau for months, clad only in a coloured cloth and a pair of brown boots, with a towel twisted round his head turban-wise, he having lost his only hat. I can vouch for the comfort of such a dress in a good climate such as obtains on the Waso Nyiro, as I tried the experiment myself.

As soon as we had breakfasted, we went about the important business of marketing. Maranga, as is Kikuyu generally, is extraordinarily rich and fertile. All kinds of grain are exceedingly plentiful. Among those brought to us for sale were millet (Panicum Italicum), called by the natives “metama;” Pennisetum spicatum, known as “mwele,” a seed resembling linseed, which grows on a close spike like a bulrush flower; Eleusine corocana, known as “uimbe;” and “muhindi,” or “dhurra” (maize). A large variety of edible roots is also cultivated, the most common being “viazi” (sweet potatoes), “vikwer” (yams), and “mahogo” (manioc). Sugar-cane was very largely grown, and is known to the natives as “mewa.” The stalks of metama, which are called “kota,” are also chewed by the natives on account of the sweetish sap. The half-grown stalks of the same plant are known as “metama m’tindi.” “N’dizi” (bananas) are also extensively cultivated, but we never ate any, as they are never allowed to ripen. The natives pluck them while they are green and hard, and roast them in hot ashes. When cooked they have the appearance and taste of a floury potato, though with a slightly astringent flavour. Wild honey was procurable in moderate quantities. It is called “assala,” evidently derived from the Arabic word for the same substance, “assal.” The Masai name for honey is “naischu,” the word generally used in Kikuyu. At certain seasons of the year the staple diet of the natives is “kundu” (beans), of which we saw two varieties, viz. “maragua,” a small white bean like a haricot, and “baazi,” a black bean which grows in pods on a small tree like a laburnum. They also grow several kinds of gourds, named respectively “mumunye,” which resembles a vegetable marrow in size and appearance, “kitoma,” a small, round kind, and “tikiti,” a small water-melon. It will be observed that we did not lack variety.

We bought large quantities of m’wele, which our Swahilis at first refused to eat: they said it was “chickens’ food.” They knew better afterwards. We also procured some “mazewa” (fresh milk) for ourselves. Food was comparatively cheap. A “makono” of cloth or a handful of beads bought several “kibabas” of grain or beans. A kibaba equals about a pint. The term “makono” (meaning, literally, a hand) is applied to the measure of the forearm from the tip of the elbow to the end of the second finger, generally about eighteen inches. Four makono equal one “doti” (about two yards), and twenty-five yards or so make a “jora” or “piece” of cloth.

The beads most in demand were the small red Masai beads known as “sem-sem.” We did not part with any wire, as we wanted it for the districts farther north.

George and I went out in the forenoon to try and shoot hippo in the Sagana, which was only an hour’s walk from the camp. On reaching a likely pool, I sat down on the bank to watch. George had turned very sick again on the way, and laid down under a shady tree. I shot two hippo in the water, but they sank, and though I sent men down the river to watch the shallows, I never saw any more of them.

There were a lot of guinea-fowl about, so I sent back to camp for my shot-gun. George was feeling so queer that he went back also. When my gun arrived, I had a good time among the guinea-fowl, securing eight in an hour or so. I also got a partridge, which turned up in a—for it—inopportune moment.

When I got back to camp, I found that El Hakim had been highly successful in his marketing, and had obtained a large quantity of food, mostly mwele, muhindi, and some viazi. For our own consumption we had laid in a stock of muhindi cobs, maragua beans, and some butter. The butter was snow-white, but, being made from curdled milk, was very acid and unpalatable.

The natives always drink their milk sour; they do not understand our preference for fresh milk. Another thing that tends to make their milk unpopular with European travellers is the dirty state of the vessels it is kept in. They are made from gourds which have had the inside cleaned out by the simple process of burning it out with hot ashes, which gives the milk a nasty charred flavour. The finished milk vessel is called a “kibuyu.” I have been told that they stir the freshly drawn milk with a charred stick from the fire, to preserve it, but I never saw it done. The Masai especially are very bad offenders in this respect. The old women who milk the cows invariably wash out the empty vessels with another fluid from the same animal, certainly never intended by nature for that purpose. If the milk is intended for sale to the “wasungu” (white men), it is more often than not adulterated in the same nauseous manner.

We lunched on some of the guinea-fowl I had shot in the forenoon. Ramathani somehow boiled them tender. Afterwards we held a “shaurie” (council), at which old Manga and many of his elders attended. We wanted all the information we could obtain about our road northward, the districts we should have to pass through, and the position of the various streams and camping-places.

We were smoking Egyptian cigarettes, a box of which we numbered among our most precious possessions, and it was rather a nuisance to have to pass a freshly lighted cigarette round the circle of natives squatted in front of El Hakim’s tent for each to take a whiff. They could not properly appreciate them, and it seemed to me very much like casting pearls before swine. In addition, when the cigarette was returned, the end was chewed about, and a good smoke thereby spoiled. If we lit another, the same process was repeated. The native gentlemen called it etiquette. I considered it downright sinful waste, an opinion in which El Hakim evidently concurred, as, after we had had several cigarettes spoiled in this provoking manner, he turned to me and said, “Get out your box of ‘stinkers,’ Hardwick, and let’s try the old gentlemen with those.”

I thought it was a splendid idea, so I brought out two of them, and, lighting one myself, handed the other to old Manga. He glanced at it suspiciously, turning it over and over in his grimy paws. He had apparently never seen a cigar before, but seeing me smoking a similar specimen, he at last ventured to light it. It seemed to grate on him a little, but he said nothing, and puffed stolidly away for a moment or two, though I could see his powers of self-control were being exerted to the utmost. After a game struggle the cigar scored a distinct success, and Manga, deliberately passing it on to the elder on his right, rose slowly, and, stalking with great dignity out of camp, disappeared behind a clump of bushes.

The old man to whom he handed it gazed wonderingly after him for a moment, then, placing the fatal weed between his aged lips, he took a long pull and inhaled the smoke. A startled look appeared in his dim old eyes, and he threw a quick glance in my direction; but I was calmly puffing away at mine, so he said nothing either, and took another whiff. In a few short moments he in his turn was vanquished, and, handing the cigar to his next neighbour, retired with great dignity to the clump of bushes, where he and old Manga offered up sacrifices to the goddess Nicotina with an unanimity that was as surprising as it was novel.

It was only with the very greatest difficulty that we managed to control our risible faculties. We were inwardly convulsed with laughter at the facial expressions of the old gentlemen before and after tasting the fearsome weed. The looks of delighted, though timorous, anticipation, the startled realization, and the agonized retrospection, which in turn were portrayed on the usually blank and uninteresting countenances of Manga’s Ministers of State, was a study in expression that was simply killing. One by one they tasted it; one by one they retired to the friendly clump of bushes that concealed their exaltation from prying eyes; and one by one they returned red-eyed and shaky, and resumed their places, inwardly quaking, though outwardly unmoved.

We also had to get up and go away, but not for the same purpose. If we had not gone away and laughed, we should have had a fit or burst a blood-vessel. It was altogether too rich. We returned red-eyed and weary also, and I believe that the old gentlemen thought that we had been up to the same performance as themselves, though they could not understand how I resumed my cigar on my reappearance, and continued smoking with unruffled serenity. I made a point of finishing my smoke to the last half-inch, and all through the “shaurie” that succeeded I became aware that I was the recipient of covert glances of admiration, not unmixed with envy, from the various members of that little band of heroic sufferers in the cause of etiquette.

When the “shaurie” was at length resumed, we gained a lot of interesting information. We found that the people who had attacked Finlay and Gibbons were the Wa’M’bu, who live two days’ journey to the north of Maranga, on the south-east slopes of Mount Kenia. They had a very bad reputation. The Maranga people spoke of them with bated breath, and remarked that they were “bad, very bad,” and that if we went through their country we should certainly be killed.

Jamah Mahomet’s safari, numbering nearly 100 guns, had refused to go through M’bu, and had turned off to the west from Maranga, to go round the west side of Mount Kenia and thence northward to Limeru, as the district north-east of Kenia is called by the Swahilis.

There are many different peoples between Maranga and M’thara, the most northerly inhabited country, though they are all A’kikuyu in blood. Beyond M’thara the desert stretches away to southern Somaliland and Abyssinia, with Lake Rudolph in the foreground about twelve days’ march north-west of M’thara.

The Maranga elders entreated us very urgently to go round west of Kenia by the same route as Jamah Mahomet and Co., but we did not see things in the same light at all. We were three white men with twenty-five guns; and, as El Hakim observed, we were “not to be turned from our path and our plans disarranged by a pack of howling savages, however bad a reputation they might have”—a decision we conveyed to our Maranga friends forthwith. They heard it with much raising of hands and rolling of eyes, and clearly regarded us as persons of unsound mind, who really ought to be kept in confinement; but still, they said, if we were determined to court a premature end in M’bu, why, they would do all in their power to help us—an ambiguity we indulgently excused in consideration of the evident sincerity of their wish to advise us for our good.

We were informed that all the people northward were “kali sana” (very fierce), and we should do well to use the utmost precaution in passing through the various districts—a piece of advice we did not intend to disregard. To go round the other way meant quite a fortnight more on the road to M’thara, in addition to which El Hakim was very anxious to see Mount Kenia from the east side, as, indeed, were we all, as no white men that we knew of had been round that way before. Perhaps the fact that the Somalis funked the M’bu route had something to do with our decision also.

We gathered what information we could of the topography of M’bu and the adjacent countries, which afterwards proved exceedingly useful. We packed up our goods and chattels, and made our preparations for a start on the morrow. One of our men, Hamisi, had a severe attack of dysentery, and we made arrangements with the old Manga to leave him behind with enough cloth for his keep for some months. Manga’s son Koranja and some of the old men signified their intention of accompanying us part of the way. It appeared that for two days’ journey we should be among friendly tribes. After that, the Wa’M’bu!

We started the following morning as soon as Koranja appeared. The country was extraordinarily rich and fertile. The soil is bright red, and produces, in conjunction with the constant moisture, a practically unlimited food-supply. The ground was very hilly and well watered—too well watered for our comfort. There were no large trees, but the undergrowth was very rank and dense. We saw large quantities of the castor-oil plant (Ricinus communis) growing wild. The natives press the dark-coloured oil from the seeds and smear their bodies with it.

Several times on that morning’s march we saw Koranja, who was leading, dart hurriedly to one side, and, leaving the path, plunge into the undergrowth, making a devious détour round something, followed, of course, by the safari. We asked the reason of his strange conduct, and the answer more than satisfied us. It was the single word “ndui” (small-pox). We passed quite half a dozen villages which were entirely depopulated by the scourge. Now and again we saw a solitary emaciated figure, covered with small-pox pustules, crouching on the side of the path, watching us with an uninterested and vacant stare. On a shout from Koranja and a threatening motion of his spear, it would slink mournfully away into the deeper recesses of the jungle.

We reached a small clearing about midday, and camped. We were unable to build a boma round the camp, owing to the absence of thorn trees, or any reliable substitute; so that we were in a measure defenceless against a sudden attack. Large numbers of armed natives soon put in appearance, and swaggered in and out with great freedom, and even insolence. We cleared them out politely, but firmly, and they then congregated outside and discussed us. They talked peacefully enough, but it was more like the peaceful singing of a kettle before it boils over. We ate our lunch, and retired to our tents. George and I went to our own tent, and, taking off our boots, laid down on our blankets for a quiet smoke. Our men seemed very much upset by the stories they had heard in Maranga concerning the warlike qualities of the Wa’M’bu, and their condition could only be described as “jumpy.” To put it plainly, they were in a pitiable state of fright, and needed careful handling, if we were to avoid trouble with the natives through their indiscretion; as trouble would come quite soon enough of its own accord without that.

To resume, George and I had lain down, perhaps, half an hour, and were quite comfortable and half asleep, when a terrific altercation caused us to jump up and rush outside. We were just in time to assist El Hakim in forcibly disarming our men. Some of them were placing cartridges in the breeches of their rifles; a few yards away a vast crowd of natives were frantically brandishing their spears and clubs and yelling like demons. If a shot had been fired, we should have been in rather a tight place, for, as I have said, the camp was quite open, and practically defenceless. If the A’kikuyu had rushed us, then the chances are that another fatality would have been added to Africa’s already long list. As it was, by much shouting and punching, we induced our excited and frightened men to put down their weapons in time, and so regained control over them.

Koranja, shaking visibly, went up to the Kikuyu chief and smoothed matters down, after which mutual explanations ensued. It appeared that an M’kikuyu warrior had indulged too freely in “tembo” (native beer), and had run amuck through our camp. Our men, in their already fidgety state, jumped to the conclusion that they were being attacked, seized their rifles, and were about to use them, when our timely appearance on the scene prevented a very pretty butchery. The natives professed to be very sorry for what had occurred, and, seizing their drunken companion, hurried him away, and peace, if not harmony, was restored.

We did not trust them, however, as they seemed very sullen over the whole business. Koranja was also very nervous, and showed it, which did not tend to reassure our men. We ate our dinner at dusk, to the accompaniment of howling and shouting from A’kikuyu concealed in the surrounding bush. We doubled the guard at sundown, just before we went to dinner, giving them the most precise instructions in the event of an alarm. At the conclusion of the meal we were startled by a volley from the sentries. The whole camp was immediately alarmed, and symptoms of a panic manifested themselves. We restored order with a little difficulty, and, on investigation, found that the sentries had fired on some natives skulking round in undue proximity to the camp.

We now made every preparation for attack, and made arrangements for one or the other of us to be on guard all night. I took the first watch from 8 p.m. to 10 p.m., and El Hakim the second from 10 p.m. to 12 a.m.; but everything remained quiet, and El Hakim did not think it necessary to call George at midnight, the rest of the night proving uneventful, with the exception that our fox-terrier gave birth to six puppies, of which she seemed very proud.

At daylight we struck camp, and were away before the sun was fairly up. The country was much the same as on the day before, though, if anything, the jungle was more dense. The shambas were filled to overflowing with unripe muhindi and pumpkins, while sweet potatoes and beans were growing in great profusion on every side. Travelling in the early morning was decidedly unpleasant, as the dew collected on the shrubbery was shaken down upon us in showers, wetting us through to the skin. We crossed two or three small rivers, and at midday reached and camped at a place called Materu.

The chief soon put in an appearance, and we purchased a further supply of food, in the shape of potatoes, beans, muhindi, and a little honey. We also obtained further information of the road through the notorious M’bu country which, I must confess, did not seem to have any better reputation the nearer we approached it.

Our Maranga friends, under Koranja, appeared very frightened at their close proximity to the dreaded Wa’M’bu, and intimated their intention of returning to Maranga. We answered that they might go when we gave them permission, but for the present we required their services; with which answer they had perforce to be content.

The next morning we again travelled through much the same densely populated and cultivated country as that hitherto passed, though it seemed to get more mountainous. We had not as yet got a view of Mount Kenia, as the sky had been for days covered with a thick curtain of grey clouds. Koranja informed us that two hours after starting we should reach a river called “Shelangow,” which was the boundary of M’bu. We said the sooner the better.

At midday, after some hours’ steady march, we appeared to be as far from the “Shelangow” as ever, though we had been informed that it was “huko mbeli kidogo” (only just in front) for over three hours. As the men were very tired, El Hakim decided to camp, in spite of Koranja’s energetic protests that the Shelangow was “karibu kabissa” (very near). The country was very wet with the constant drizzle and mist, which made the steep clayey paths exceedingly slippery, while between the shambas the way led through thickets of brambles and stinging nettles, which caused the porters endless discomfort. On halting, we built a boma of shrubs; not that we thought it would be of any use in case of an attack, but to give the men confidence. We wrote letters and gave them to Koranja, on the remote chance that they would get down to Nairobi, and thence to England. (They did get down four months later, and were delivered in England five months after they were written.)

In the evening Koranja and his friends then bade us an affectionate and relieved farewell. They remarked in parenthesis that they would never see us again, as the Wa’M’bu would certainly kill us all; a belief that probably explained why they helped themselves to all our small private stock of sweet potatoes before they left; a moral lapse that—luckily for them—we did not discover till next morning. Our men sent a deputation to us during the evening, pointing out the perils of the passage through M’bu, and saying that we should of a certainty be killed, and most likely eaten. This statement we received with polite incredulity, and dismissed the deputation with a warning not to do it again.

Next morning I was very queer, a large lump having formed in my groin. This is a very common complaint in East Africa and Uganda, supposedly due to over-fatigue and walking, though I think climate and diet have something to do with it. George had two very bad ones on his way down from Uganda. It was my second experience of them, and the oftener I suffered from them, the less I liked them, as they are exceedingly painful. The only cure seems to be complete rest, and hot fomentations applied to the swelling.

We did not travel that day in consequence, but occupied ourselves in buying a little food and getting what further information we could about the road ahead. There were not many natives or villages about—a fact easily explained by the contiguity of the M’bu border. The place where we were camped was a sort of neutral territory, or “no man’s land.”

Next day, soon after daylight, we set out for the Shelangow, which was reached after a couple of hours’ march over very steep country. It proved to be merely a mountain torrent, which we easily crossed. On the other side rose a very steep hill, to the top of which we climbed, and found ourselves at last in the country of the dreaded Wa’M’bu.