On the 10th of April, 1902, we left Sierra Leone, embarking on the Sekondi for Forcados, en route to Northern Nigeria. We had spent seven months in Sierra Leone, my husband doing duty with a company of native gunners, and had grown to heartily dislike the place. In spite of its undeniable beauty, it is the possessor of a most unpleasant climate, and the impossibility of getting horse exercise, and the necessity of continually ascending or descending steep hills, either on foot, or, worse still, in a hammock, was most distasteful to us both after four years of the free and active life of Indian military stations. So we could not help looking upon our departure somewhat as a release, and even bidding good-bye to our many kind friends did not entirely damp our joy as we steamed out of the harbour and passed the lighthouse, gleaming white amidst the luxuriant greenery and bright blue water, and set our faces and thoughts towards Nigeria, and the life of a Resident there.

It certainly was a step in the darkest dark; no Englishwoman yet had gone where I meant to go, or done what I hoped to do: we knew little or nothing of the conditions of life before us except that it was ‘rough, very rough!’ I had met only one official from Nigeria, and he looked at me doubtfully and in silence when I announced my intention of accompanying my husband, much as one regards a wretched scraggy-looking screw, sometimes produced by an Irish horse-dealer, with confident asseverations as to his qualities as a hunter—and yet, the ‘screw’ scrambles along fairly all right sometimes! One of my friends in Sierra Leone—having visited Accra—felt qualified to speak, and, in endeavouring to dissuade us from this rash venture, assured me that ‘Nigeria was just like Accra—not a tree, not a blade of grass anywhere!!’ (This is quoted with apologies to Accra!) I have often smiled to myself over that pithy saying, while marching through magnificent forests, and miles of open, grassy, park-like country! Luckily, I still permitted myself to hope for trees and grass, and felt that my four years in India, and some experience of camping in Kashmir, would, at all events, prove to have been a useful education, and seven months in Sierra Leone could leave one few surprises in the shape of an unpleasant climate.

On the Sekondi we were fortunate to find an old friend of Indian days, Captain Ashburnham of the 60th Rifles, also faring forth to Nigeria for the first time, to serve with the W.A.F.F. or, as it is called there, the Northern Nigeria Regiment. He was armed with valuable experience, learnt from the South African War and life in Uganda, and many were the talks we had, and the plans we made, sitting under the awning, on the deck, while the Sekondi rolled her way south.

One of our fellow-passengers had already been to Nigeria, but I think he had outlived his enthusiasms a little, and possibly thought me an unlikely specimen to survive among ‘the fittest,’ for he responded but little to my tiresome curiosity, while the ship’s officers were unanimous in headshaking and mournful prophecies, judging Nigeria generally by their own cursory stay at Burutu, and cheerfully promising to convey me home ‘next trip’—if I should be above ground to be conveyed! At table I sat next to a Lagos official, who proved himself a real friend, and I have never ceased to be grateful to him for his encouragement and cheerful prognostications, at a time when I sorely needed them. Mr. Stone’s work at Lagos—that of road construction—lay entirely amongst the up-country natives, and he would tell me a thousand anecdotes of their simple kindly ways, courteous hospitality, and child-like interest in white people—prophesying that I should be friends with them at once, and, if anything, get rather spoilt amongst them—a forecast which has been amply fulfilled since.

The trip was an uneventful one, though not the pleasantest I have made down the Coast: the sole occurrence of interest that I can recall was that we lost one of our boats overboard during the night, and the following morning, when the loss was discovered, we turned back and sought the open seas for the derelict—and found it! A couple of stalwart Kru-boys were despatched overboard, and swam to the boat, only to find there were neither oars nor paddles inside, and they presented a comically helpless spectacle, sitting in the boat, and frantically endeavouring to paddle with their hands! They had to do another swim, to possess themselves of the paddles thrown from the ship before they could bring their prize alongside. And so on—by day, sunshine, sapphire water, the fringe of low grey coast-line, which never loses its fascination for me, by night, glorious stars and an infant moon, and—night and day alike, the monotonous, infinitely soothing roll of the ship, as the huge swell swept shorewards, to break itself in thundering surf, away by the grey palm-trees and the yellow sand.

We left the Sekondi outside the bar at Forcados, transhipped ourselves and our belongings to the ‘branch boat,’ a small steamer of light draft, and spent four or five weary hot hours crossing the bar and finding our way up to Burutu. Here we were most kindly and hospitably received by the Marine Superintendent, who gave me a most welcome cup of tea, and assisted us to arrange ourselves on the Karonga, one of the Government stern-wheelers, which travel up and down the Niger, carrying mails and passengers. These little boats consist of an upper and lower deck, the latter loaded with cargo, fuel and native passengers, the former reserved for European travellers, and though, nowadays, they boast of regular cabins, when I first made the acquaintance of the Karonga the after part of the deck was merely divided off into partitions by canvas screens, an arrangement which I still prefer to a stuffy cabin! At Burutu we bought stores, etc., for the up-river trip, and as we had brought a couple of native servants from Sierra Leone, we shook down quite comfortably.

That evening we dined on board the Jebba, which was lying at Burutu, and, later, embarked on our little stern-wheeler, and set out on our river journey, under a full moon, threading our way along one of the labyrinths of creeks—a liquid silver path, walled on each side with straight lines of mangroves, dense black shadows, and weird, bare white roots and stems—a scene suggestive of mystery, and full of a strange beauty of its own.

I enjoyed every day of that trip; we were a cheery party, and all prepared to make the best of life: as we left the Delta behind, the country became more diversified, little villages appeared on the banks and we were surrounded by tiny canoes, the occupants of which, boys and girls, clamoured loudly in greeting, and fierce competition ensued over the empty tins and bottles flung to them.

The second evening we were destined to discover the weak points of the Karonga; the rain came down in torrents, poured through the roof of the deck in vigorous streams, soaking beds and bedding in five minutes. We stripped our beds, and sat patiently, watching the water dripping steadily on the bare canvas, till, in sheer weariness, we rolled ourselves up in mackintoshes, rigged waterproof sheets on top of the mosquito nets, and slept soundly in spite of wet pillows and the prevailing drippiness!

In the morning, however, hot sunshine turned our sorrow into joy—every available space was employed for the drying of wet blankets and clothing, and, with all our gloom dispersed, Captain Ashburnham and I mixed the dough, and treated ourselves to hot scones for breakfast!

We arrived at Lokoja rather late one evening, and after sleeping that night on the Karonga, the next morning we were most kindly taken in charge by Mr. Gollan, then Chief Justice, who was temporarily filling the place of the last Resident, just invalided home. Mr. Gollan escorted us to our quarters, a massively built double-storeyed stone house, known as the ‘Preperanda,’ which had previously been the Mess-house of the N.N. Regiment, but was now in a very bad state of repair. The rooms below were used as offices, and those above as a dwelling-house. The verandah was in a ruinous condition, and most of the glass had vanished from the doors and windows; even the shutters had fallen off, so that, when the tornadoes came, as they did with annoying frequency, salvation lay in one direction only, to collect all one’s belongings in frantic haste in a heap in the centre of the floor, cover them with waterproof sheets, and sit firmly on them till the storm had spent itself, when the floor could be mopped up, and books, pictures, etc., returned to their places.

Still, I have always loved the Preperanda: it was almost buried in trees, gorgeous scarlet ‘flamboyant’ (Poinciana Regia), red and yellow acacias, deliciously scented frangipani, both white and pink, huge bushes of rosy oleanders, lime-trees, mangoes, orange-trees and guavas: leaning over the verandah railing in the fragrant soft darkness, I then and there took to heart the lesson which I have tried to practise ever since—the absolute duty of planting trees everywhere for the benefit of one’s successors.

At the Preperanda, I began to study the art of Nigerian housekeeping, and forthwith engaged a cook, a most unprepossessing looking individual, a Kru-boy, rejoicing in the name of Jim Dow; he proved an excellent cook, as they go in West Africa, but a frail vessel where intoxicants were concerned; nevertheless, he did us good service for three years in many places, was untiring on the march, and, in the main, sober. The further knowledge I acquired on this all-important subject I have gathered together in a later chapter for the sake of convenience.

Our first month in Lokoja was, in many ways, a busy one; my husband had his hands only too full of official work, we bought a couple of ponies, and I set to work to organize a stable, realizing sadly in a day or two that the amenities and conveniences of Indian life were not to be found here, any more than inside the house. We made friends, too, with the small community of white people in the station, the nursing sisters, N.N.R. officers and civilian officials, and many were the helping hands and kindly hints given to us, on all sides, and most gratefully received.

Lokoja is placed most picturesquely on a strip of level ground, encircled by hills and the Niger. Above the native town towers the Patti Hill, a flat-topped mountain some eight hundred feet high, on the summit of which, originally, there was a town and many acres of cultivation. The town has vanished, but traces of old farms can easily be seen, and the former occupiers are, even now, anxious to return to their perch and build a new village. They seem to have a high opinion of the soil up there, and we have often wished that the English community might be able to form a new station on that breezy hill-top instead of grilling down by the river bank. Perhaps it may come to pass some day, for the present Cantonment is, most unfortunately, down-stream from the native town.

I often wonder whether any one who had not seen the place for ten years or so would be able to recognize it to-day! The change, even since I have known it, has been amazing. When we landed there, five years ago, the ‘Civil Lines’ consisted of a straggling row of bungalows, rejoicing in the significant appellation of ‘Blackwater Crescent’! In front stretched a waste of swampy ground, thickly covered with coarse, rank grass.

To-day, with its numbers of neat bungalows, well-tended little gardens, the swamp drained and converted into a recreation ground, containing tennis-courts, cricket-pitch, etc., good roads, and flowering trees and hedges, it is as pretty a little cantonment as one could wish to see, and the view from the hills behind is extremely beautiful—the two rivers, Niger and Benue meeting just below the cantonment, winding down to the confluence like two silver ribbons, visible for miles up river.

The 2nd Battalion of the N.N.R. are quartered in Lokoja, with a company of native gunners, and we still call their lines ‘the camp’—a survival of the days when the soldiers existed in wretched discomfort, under canvas. Behind the camp is the polo ground, and, on the farthest ridge, the new hospital is prominent, with the Sisters’ bungalow, and medical officers’ quarters. Personally, I have always thought Lokoja a far prettier and pleasanter place than Zungeru, the new headquarters, but comparisons are ever ungracious, and lasting impressions of places—to me—depend so much on associations, that Lokoja has always been more of a ‘home’ than a ‘headquarters’ to me. I have always been sorry to leave it, and always glad and contented to see it again.