Into the Niger Bend: Barsac Mission, Part 1

by Jules Verne

  Beyond the lata there was an exchange of farewells. The officers of the garrison wished them a pleasant journey; and, not without some emotion, Barsac and Baudrieres shook hands. At last, as the troops returned to their barracks, the two convoys set off and put themselves en route, each in its own direction.

  Baudrieres, his companions, and the hundred men of their escort went off towards the south. Barsac, M. Poncin, Dr. Chatonnay, Amedee Florence, Jane Mornas and St. Berain, similarly escorted by a hundred horsemen commanded by Captain Marcenay, turned to the left and disappeared towards the east.

  These two columns, so very similar, were to have very different destinies. If the first was not to encounter any real danger, or even any serious difficulty, it was not so for the second. While Baudrieres went on to accomplish his mission peaceably, and to assemble the material for his report to the Chamber, and at last arrived at Grand Bassam almost on schedule, Barsac and his friends were to be involved in the most terrible, the most extraordinary, adventure that could be imagined.

  So ignoring the petty incidents which marked the quiet progress of Baudrieres, this narrative will henceforth deal exclusively with that part of the Mission which set off eastwards, and which, led by the guide Morilire, plunged ever more deeply into darkest Africa.

  CHAPTER VIII

  MORILIRE

  (From the note-book of Amedee Florence)

  22nd January. It is now two days since we left Sikasso, and already I have an idea that there's something wrong. It is only an idea, I repeat, but I feel that the spirit of our servants has fallen off; our muleteers are snowing less ardour, if that were possible, in hurrying on the donkeys, and our porters are tiring more quickly and demanding more rests. Maybe this is all imagination, and I am unconsciously influenced by the predictions of the KSniSlala at Kankan. Though I had almost forgotten them, they seem to have regained a certain cogency since now that we have left Sikasso our escort has been cut by half.

  Do I feel anxious? Not at all! Oh rather, if I am uneasy it is lest that idiot of a Ken'ie'lala, instead of merely pattering off his lesson by rote, actually has second-sight. What is it I really want? Adventures, adventures, and still more adventures from which I can get good copy, because that's my job. But adventures, real adventures, are what I'm still waiting for.

  23rd January. I can't help thinking that we are going along like a convoy of tortoises. Certainly the nature of the ground doesn't lend itself to rapid progress; it's nothing but going up and coming down. None the less, the ill will of our Negroes seems unmistakable.

  24th January. What did I tell you? This evening we reached Kafell. We have taken four days to cover about thirty miles. Eight miles a day, that isn't bad,as a record.

  31st January. Well, we've beaten our record! We've taken six days to do another thirty miles or so (total, sixty miles in ten days!)and here we are in a little place called Kokoro. What a hole!

  Three days ago we left a village called Ngaga (where the devil do they hunt up these names?) we've climbed another of those steep hills, then made a steep descent into the valley we're now following. Mountains to the north, south, and west. Before us, eastwards, the plain.

  To add to our bad luck, we were delayed some time in Kokoro. Not that we were prisoners. On the contrary, the village headman, a certain Pintie-Ba, is our very good friend.

  At Kokoro begins the country of the Bobos. If the name is rather amusing, the inhabitants are less so. Mere brutes.

  For one thing, these rascals are not fussy about food. They'll eat without repugnance what is nothing but decaying carrion. Pah! And their mentality is comparable, as can be seen from the way we came into contact with them.

  The scene is Kokoro, yesterday, 30th January. It is night Just as we reach the village we are jostled by a howling mob of Negroes, we could count in the torchlight at least eight hundred, who do not seem to be inspired by the most friendly intentions. It's the first time we've had a reception of this kind. So we halt, rather taken aback.

  Taken aback, but not alarmed. Let those lascars brandish their weapons as they will, we know we could wipe out those charming folk with a single volley. Captain Marcenay gives an order. His men grasp their rifles, but don't take them out of their cases. Indeed, the captain hesitates. To fire on a neighbour is a serious matter, even when that neighbour is a Bobo. So far our powder has been silent, and we don't want to make it speak.

  That is the position when St. Berain's horse, frightened by the dun, pulls up suddenly with his four feet apart. Shot out of the saddle, St. Berain makes a graceful somersault and falls slap into the horde of Negroes.

  They start howling wildly, and are throwing themselves upon our unlucky friend when....

  ... when Mlle Momas spurs her horse into their midst. This at once draws their attention from St. Berain. They surge round his courageous squire. Twenty assagais are levelled against her.

  "Mantol" she cried to her assailants. "Nte a be souba" ("Silence! I'm a witch!")

  As she says this, she takes a pocket electric torch from her saddle bow and switches it on and off, to show plainly that she can control fire and the lightning.

  At sight of this, the howling ceases and a great circle forms respectfully around her; to the middle of this comes Pintie Ba, whom I've already mentioned. Of course he has to make a speech. That's the weakness of every government on earth. But Mlle Mornas silences him. First she has to go to the help of St. Berain, who has not moved since his fall and might have been injured.

  This is soon verified by Dr. Chatonnay, who enters the circle as calmly as though it were the home of one of his patients: St. Berain is wounded. He is indeed covered with blood. He fell so unluckily that a pointed stone cut deeply into him just below the loins.

  I saw at once that this fulfils one of the Keni Slalas predictions. It has come true. That gives me such good hopes for the others that it sends a shiver through me whenever I think of the fate of my articles.

  However, Dr. Chatonnay has cleaned up the wound. He takes out his instrument case and sews up the injury, while the Negroes look on in amazement.

  While this operation is proceeding, Mlle Mornas, who has stayed on her horse, gives Pintie Ba permission to speak. He approaches and wants to know, in Bambara or some such gibberish, why the toubab (meaning St. Berain) had attacked them with a gun. Mlle Mornas denies it. The headman insists and points to the case which St. Berain is carrying like a bandolier. She explains. Labour lost. To convince him, the case, which shines in the torch-light, has to be uncovered and opened, and the fishing lines it contains have to be displayed.

  At the sight, the eyes of Pintie Ba gleam with envy. His hands extend towards that shining object. Like a spoiled child, he wants to have it, he must have it, he insists. St. Berain indignantly refuses.

  Mlle Mornas, who wants to consolidate the newly formed peace, presses him in vain. At last she gets angry.

  "Nephewl" she says severely, while shining her torch-beam towards the recalcitrant angler.

  St Berain at once yields up his case to Pintie Ba, who attributes his success to the magic power of the electric torch and the influence of the witch.

  When the idiot has got hold of his treasure, he goes wild with joy. He dances the devil of a jig; then, at his signal, all the weapons vanish and he advances into our midst.

  He treats us to a discourse in which he invites us, it seems, to wander around the village just as we please, and he orders that the following day there shall be a grand dance in our honour.

  In view of the peaceful attitude of the Bobos, Captain Marcenay sees nothing inconvenient in our accepting the invitation. The following day, therefore (that's to-day) early in the afternoon, we pay our visit to our new friends, while our escort and our black personnel wait outside the tata.

  Ah, dear readers, what a performance! Tastes differ, but so far as I'm concerned, I prefer the Champs Elysees.

  We go straight to the palace. This is an agglomeration of huts in the midst of the village, near
the central pile of garbage, which isn't meant to make them smell pleasant. On the outsides these huts, built of compressed earth, are daubed with ash. But it's their insides you ought to see! The yard is nothing but a mud patch serving as a meadow for the cattle and sheep. All around are the dwellings, which are more like cellars, for you have to go downwards to get into them. Don't try it! You smell an abominable stink which takes you by the throat, and you have to fight your way through the goats and hens and other farmyard animals which stroll about so freely.

  From this description of the palace you can well imagine what the dwellings of the common herd are like. They are dens of swarming rats, lizards, millipedes, and other vermin, in the midst of all manner of filth, from which comes a disgusting stench.

  A charming place!

  It is in the palace that the official reception takes place. It consists of giving Pintie Ba some presents, otherwise useless, from a few pieces of cloth to padlocks without keys, and from old flintlock pistols to some needles and thread.

  Literally dazzled by these splendid presents, he gives the signal for the dance.

  First the musicians go through the village, some playing the bodotoy a trumpet made of antelope horn, others the bouron, a different kind of trumpet made of elephant tusk, still others on the tabala in English, the drum. Two men carry the tabala, on which a third beats with all his might, using a sort of club, called the Tabala Kalama. Regarding this, Captain Binger has pointed out, quite reasonably, that Kalama sounds if it were derived from Calamus, so that Tabala Kalama literally means a pen to write on the drum.

  At the sound of this medley of instruments, the Bobos gather on the market-place, and the feast begins.

  A sort of Soudanese Punch, the mokho misai kou, enters and dances with remarkable grimaces and contortions. He is clad in a red robe and capped with a bonnet adomed with cows' tails, from which a piece of cloth falls to cover his face. He carries, bandolier-fashion, a bag filled with clanking lumps of iron, and each of his movements jangles little bells and rattles fastened to his ankles and wrists. He cheerfully tickles the faces of the audience with long cow tails.

  When he has finished these exercises, which seem to give much amusement to Pintie Ba and his courtiers, the latter, on a sign from their leader, roar like wild beasts; this, I suppose, means unanimous applause.

  Silence restored, Pintie Ba sends for an umbrella adorned with cowries and amulets, not because he needs it but because a headman is nothing unless he has, wide opened above his head, the parasol, the emblem of power.

  Then the dances begin. Men, women, children, form a circle, the witchdoctors bang on the drums, and two female dancers run in from the opposite ends of the place. After three rapid pirouettes, they run up to one another, not face to face but on the contrary turning their backs on each other, and, when in contact, pumping each other as hard as possible.

  To these two danseuses follow two others, and at last all the audience, howling savagely, joins in a sort of disordered quadrille, compared with which our wildest dance would seem very modest and very dull.

  The dance ends with a procession. The Bobos file past Pintie Ba, singing a chorus to the accompaniment of the deafening noise of the tabala, the trumpets, and the cane flutes, whose strident sounds rend the ears.

  At last it is suppertime and then begins a scene of carnage, an orgy of blood.

  They bring in a dozen or so sheep, killed in the huts. They stretch long cords from tree to tree; this marks out a square, in which the women pile up some dry wood. Then with their knives the Negroes hack the animals into pieces and cut them into strips which the women hang on to the cords, while the wood is kindled. When he thinks they are properly cooked, Pintie Ba gives a signal, and all the Negroes rush headlong on strips of meat, grip them by the handful and tear them with their teeth. They find nothing too repulsive. It is a horrible sight.

  "They are cannibalsl" cries Mlle Mornas. She has turned quite pale.

  "Alas, yes, dear child," Dr. Chatonnay replies. "But if eating is the only pleasure these unfortunate people have, it is because they are always suffering from the same complaint...hunger."

  Disgusted, we make no delay in going back to our tents, but for the Negroes the feast goes on late. It indeed lasts all night, as is shown by the outcries which reach our ears.

  2nd February. We are still at Kokoro, delayed by St. Berain's injury. The uncle-nephew (I at last call him this) cannot stay on his horse.

  3rd February. Still Kokoro. That's cheerful!

  4th February, six a.m. At last we're off!

  The same day, evening. False start. We are still at Kokoro.

  This morning, at dawn, we made our farewells to our friends the Bobos. (One has friends where he can find them). All the village is standing, Pintie Ba at their head, and there comes a litany of greetings.

  "May N'yalla (God) keep you in good health!"

  "May He give you a good road!"

  "May He give you a good horse!," at the sound of this last wish St. Berain makes a face, his wound is still painful.

  We tear ourselves away from these demonstrations, and the column gets off.

  It gets off, but it does not get on. It's worse than it was before Kokoro. The ill will is glaringly evident. Every moment a porter stops and we have to wait for him. A donkey's load tumbles off and we have to put it on again. At ten, when we halt, we haven't gone four miles.

  I marvel at Captain Marcenay's patience. Never once has he swerved from the most perfect calm. Nothing upsets him, nothing tires him. He struggles with a quiet cold energy against this campaign of obstructiveness.

  But, when we set out for the evening's march, it is another matter. Morilire declares that he has made a mistake. We consult the two guides hired by Mlle Mornas.

  Tchoumouki agrees with Morilire. Tongane declares on the other hand that we are on the right road. That's very helpful! What are we to believe?

  After long hesitation, we accept the majority opinion, and return on our tracks. Then it's marvellous to see how fast we go. The blacks are no longer tired, the donkey loads have secured themselves.

  In an hour we have covered the distance which took four going the other way, and, before nightfall, we have regained our morning's camp, near Kokoro.

  6th February. Yesterday, 5th February, we set off again without too many difficulties, and what is remarkable, by the very road which we had rejected the previous day. Morilire now swears, indeed, on thinking it over, that last evening he had been mistaken. Again Tchoumouki supports him. I am strongly inclined to think that these two darkies are in league against us.

  Nothing special yesterday, except the ill feeling we are beginning to get accustomed to; but two grave incidents today.

  During the morning's march, a donkey falls suddenly. They try to get him up. He's dead. Of course, his death could be natural. I admit, however, that I fancy it might be the doung kono or some other filth he has picked up.

  Nobody says a word. We simply share the dead beast's load among the others, and continue on our way.

  When we move off again in the afternoon, the second incident occurs. We realize that one of the porters is missing. What's become of him? It's a mystery. Captain Marcenay chews his moustache; I can see he's anxious. If the Negroes forsake us, we are done for. Nothing is more catching than the germ of desertion. Moreover, I can see that our precautions have now become more stringent. We have to march in file as though on parade, and the horsemen of the escort do not permit the slightest free movement. I find this strict discipline a nuisance, but I approve of it all the same.

  When we halt for the evening, another surprise. We see that several of the Negroes are drunk. But who has given them the booze?

  The captain organizes a most meticulous watch over the camp, then he goes to find M. Barsac, whom I happen to be with at the time, and explains the situation, which has been getting worse since we left Sikasso. Dr. Chatonnay, M. Poncin, Mlle Mornas, then St. Berain, come one by one to join us, so th
at we can hold a regular council of war.

  The captain sets out the facts in a few words, and puts the blame on to Morilire. He suggests giving the faithless guide a thorough questioning, and then if necessary to use force. Each of the Negroes should be individually accompanied with a Tirailleur, who will force him to march, even if that means under pain of death.

  M. Barsac is not of that opinion, and St. Berain even less. To interrogate Morilire will be to warn him, to show him that he's been found out. We haven't any evidence against him, and what's more we cannot so much as imagine whyever he should betray us. Morilire has only got to deny it, and we shall have nothing to say.

  As for the natives, how can we possibly compel them? What's to be done if they lie down, if they resist us only with the force of inertia? Shooting them would be a very poor means of making sure of their servicesl

  We decide that it would be better to keep silence, to be firmer, to protect ourselves by indomitable patience, and above all to keep a careful watch on Morilire.

  This is all very well, but a thought occurs to me. Why push on so stubbornly with this journey? The object of the Mission is to inform itself of the mentality of the Negroes in the Niger Bend and of their degree of civilization. Well, we understand their mentality well enough. If the peoples between the coast and Kankan, indeed so far as Tiola or even Sikasso, are said to be roughhewn enough to deserve some political rights, I'll willingly agree, although that's not my own opinion. But beyond Sikasso? ... It won't be these savages all around us, these Bobos who are more like animals than men, who are to be converted into voters, I suppose? Then why be so determined? Isn't it clear that the further East we go, which means the further from the sea, the less contact the natives have had with Europeans, and so their veneer of civilization (?) will wear thinner and thinner.

  These truths seem dazzlingly clear to me, and I am amazed that my travelling companions don't find them equally dazzling.