Part 6

As usual in this country, where the gender masculine will not work, we had two cooks――tall, buxom, muscular dames, chocolate skinned and round faced. They had curiously soft and fluted voices, hardly to be expected from their square and huge-hipped figures, and contrasting agreeably with the harsh organs of the men. Their feet were bare, their veil was confined by a narrow fillet, and the body-cloth was an indigo-dyed cotton, girt at the waist and graceful as a winding sheet. I never saw them eat; probably, as the people say of cooks, they lived by sucking their fingers.

And here a few words about the Somali, amongst whom we were to travel. These nomads were not pure negroes; like the old Egyptians, they were a mixed breed of African and Arab. The face from the brow to the nostrils is Asiatic, from the nostrils to the chin showed traces of negro blood. The hair was African; they decorated it by a sheep-skin wig cut to the head and died fiery orange with henna. The figure was peculiar, the shoulders were high and narrow, the trunk was small, the limbs were spider-like, and the forearm was often of simian proportions.

The Somali were a free people, lawless as free. The British Government would not sanction their being sold as slaves. Of course they enslaved others, and they had a servile caste called Midyan, who were the only archers. They had little reverence for their own chiefs except in council, and they discussed every question in public, none hesitating to offer the wildest conjectures. At different times they suggested that I was a Turk, an Egyptian, a Marah man, a Banyan, Ahmad the Indian, the Governor of Aden, a merchant, a pilgrim, the chief of Zayla or his son, a boy, a warrior in silver armour, an old woman, a man painted white, and lastly, a calamity sent down from heaven to tire out the lives of the Somali.

The Somali were bad Moslems, but they believed in a deity and they knew the name of their Prophet. Wives being purchased for their value in cows or camels, the wealthy old were polygamous and the young poor were perforce bachelors. They worked milk-pots of tree-fibre like the beer-baskets of Kaffir-land. They were not bad smiths, but they confined their work to knives, spear-heads, and neat bits for their unshod horses. Like the Kaffirs, they called bright iron “rotten,” and they never tempered it. Like all Africans, they were very cruel riders.

These nomads had a passion for independence, and yet when placed under a strong arm they were easily disciplined. In British Aden a merry, laughing, dancing, and fighting race, at home they were a moping, melancholy people; for this their lives of perpetual danger might account. This insecurity made them truly hard-hearted. I have seen them when shifting camp barbarously leave behind for the hyenas their sick and decrepit parents. When the fatal smallpox breaks out, the first cases are often speared and the huts burned over the still warm corpse.

The Somali deemed nothing so noble as murder. The more cowardly the deed is, the better, as showing the more “nous.” Even the midnight butchery of a sleeping guest is highly honourable. The hero plants a rish, or white ostrich feather, in his tufty pole and walks about the admired of all admirers, whilst the wives of those who have not received this order of merit taunt their husbands as _noirs fainéants_. Curious to say, the Greek and Roman officers used to present these plumes to the bravest of their officers for wearing on their helmet.

My journey began with the hard alluvial plain, forty-five to fifty-eight miles broad, between the sea and the mountains. It belonged to the Eesa, a tribe of Somali Bedouins, and how these “sun-dwellers” could exist there was a mystery. On the second day we reached a kraal consisting of gurgi, or diminutive hide huts. There was no thorn fence as is required in the lion-haunted lands to the west. The scene was characteristic of that pastoral life which supplies poetry with Arcadian images and history with its blackest tragedies. Whistling shepherds, tall thin men, spear in hand, bore the younglings of the herd in their bosoms or drove to pasture the long-necked camels preceded by a patriarch with a wooden bell. Patches of Persian sheep with snowy bodies and jetty faces flecked the tawny plain, and flocks of goats were committed to women dressed in skins and boys who were unclad till the days of puberty. Some led the ram, around whose neck a cord of white heather was tied for luck. Others frisked with the dogs, animals by no means contemptible in the eyes of these Bedouin Moslems. All begged for bori――the precious tobacco――their only narcotic. They run away if they see smoke, and they suspect a kettle to be a mortal weapon. So the Bachwanas called our cannon, “pots.” Many of these wild people had never tasted grain and had never heard of coffee or sugar. During the rains they lived on milk; in the dries they ate meat, avoiding, however, the blood. Like other races to the north and south, they would not touch fish or birds, which they compared to snakes and vultures. “Speak not to me with that mouth that has tasted fish!” is a dire insult.

The Eesa were a typical Somali tribe; it might have numbered one hundred thousand spears, and it had a bad name. “Treacherous as an Eesa,” is a proverb at Zayla, where it is said these savages would offer you a bowl of milk with the left hand and would stab you with the right. Their lives were spent in battle and murder.

The next march, a total of fifty-two miles, nearly lost us. Just before reaching the mountains which subtend the coast, we crossed the warm trail of a razzia, or cavalcade: some two hundred of the Habr Awal, our inveterate enemies, had been scouring the country. Robinson Crusoe was less scared by the footprint than were my companions. Our weak party numbered only nine men, of whom all except Mohammed and Guled were useless, and the first charge would have been certain death.

Escaping this danger, we painfully endured the rocks and thorns of the mountains and wilds. The third march placed us at Halimalah, a sacred tree about half-way between this coast and our destination――Harar. It is a huge sycamore suggesting the hiero-sykaminon of Egypt. The Gallas are still tree-worshippers, and the Somali respect this venerable vegetable as do the English their Druidical mistletoe.

We were well received at the kers (the kraals or villages). They were fenced with large and terrible thorns, an effectual defence against barelegged men. The animals had a place apart――semi-circular beehives made of grass mats mounted on sticks. The furniture consisted of weapons, hides, wooden pillows and mats for beds, pots of woven fibre, and horse gear. We carried our own dates and rice, we bought meat and the people supplied us with milk gratis――to sell it was a disgrace. Fresh milk was drunk only by the civilised; pastoral people preferred it when artificially curdled and soured.

We soon rose high above sea-level, as the cold nights and the burning suns told us. The eighth march placed us on the Ban Marar, a plain twenty-seven miles broad――at that season a waterless stubble, a yellow nap, dotted with thorny trees and bushes, and at all times infamous for robbery and murder. It was a glorious place for game: in places it was absolutely covered with antelopes, and every random shot must have told in the immense herds.

Here I had the distinction of being stalked by a lion. As night drew in we were urging our jaded mules over the western prairie towards a dusky line of hills. My men proceeded whilst I rode in rear with a double-barrelled gun at full cock across my knees. Suddenly my animal trembled and bolted forward with a sidelong glance of fear. I looked back and saw, within some twenty yards, the king of beasts creeping up silently as a cat. To fire both barrels in the direction of my stalker was the work of a second. I had no intention of hitting, as aim could not be taken in the gloaming, and to wound would have been fatal. The flame and the echoed roar from the hills made my friend slink away. Its intention was, doubtless, to crawl within springing distance and then by a bound on my neck to have finished my journey through Somaliland and through life. My companions shouted in horror “Libah! libah!”――“The lion! the lion!”――and saw a multitude of lions that night.

After crossing the desert prairie, we entered the hills of the agricultural Somali, the threshold of the South Abyssinian mountains. The pastoral scene now changed for waving crops of millet, birds in flights, and hedged lanes, where I saw with pleasure the dog-rose. Guided by a wild fellow called Altidon, we passed on to the Sagharah, the village of the Gerad, or chief, Adan. He had not a good name, and I was afterwards told he was my principal danger. But we never went anywhere without our weapons, and the shooting of a few vultures on the wing was considered a great feat where small shot is unknown. “He brings down birds from the sky!” exclaimed the people.

I must speak of the Gerad, however, as I found him――a civil and hospitable man, greedy, of course, suspicious, and of shortsighted policy.

His good and pretty wife Kayrah was very kind, and supplied me with abundance of honey wine, the merissa of Abyssinia. It tasted like champagne to a palate long condemned to total abstinence, without even tea.

We were now within thirty direct miles of Harar, and my escort made a great stand. The chief Adan wanted to monopolise us and our goods. My men, therefore, were threatened with smallpox, the bastinado, lifelong captivity in unlit dungeons, and similar amenities.

On June 2nd, 1855, sent for our mules. They were missing. An unpleasantness was the consequence, and the animals appeared about noon. I saddled my own――no one would assist me. When, mounted and gun in hand, I rode up to my followers, who sat sulkily on the ground, and observing that hitherto their acts had not been those of the brave, I suggested that before returning to Aden we should do something of manliness. They arose, begged me not to speak such words, and offered to advance if I would promise to reward them should we live and to pay blood-money to their friends in case of the other contingency. They apparently attached much importance to what is vulgarly termed “cutting up well.”

Now, however, we were talking reason, and I settled all difficulties by leaving a letter addressed to the Political Resident at Aden. Mohammed and Guled were chosen to accompany me, the rest remaining with the Gerad Adan. I must say for my companions that once in the saddle they shook off their fears; they were fatalists, and they believed in my star, whilst they had the fullest confidence in their pay or pension.

The country now became romantic and beautiful――a confusion of lofty stony mountains, plantations of the finest coffee, scatters of villages, forests of noble trees, with rivulets of the coolest and clearest water. We here stood some five thousand five hundred feet high, and although only nine degrees removed from the Line, the air was light and pleasant. It made me remember the climate of Aden, and hate it.

We slept _en route_, and on January 3rd we first sighted Harar City. On the crest of a hill distant two miles it appeared, a long sombre line strikingly contrasting with the whitewashed settlements of the more civilised East, and nothing broke the outline except the two grey and rudely shaped minarets of the Jami, or Maritz (cathedral). I almost grudged the exposure of three lives to win so paltry a prize. But of all Europeans who had attempted it before me not one had succeeded in entering that ugly pile of stones.

We then approached the city gate and sat there, as is the custom, till invited to enter. Presently we were ordered to the palace by a chamberlain, a man with loud and angry voice and eyes.

At the entrance of the palace we dismounted by command, and we were told to run across the court, which I refused to do. We were then placed under a tree in one corner of the yard and to the right of the palace. The latter is a huge, windowless barn of rough stone and red clay, without other insignia but a thin coat of whitewash over the doorway.

Presently we were beckoned in and told to doff our slippers. A curtain was raised, and we stood in the presence of the then Amir of Harar, Sultan Ahmed bin Sultan Abibaki.

The sight was savage, if not imposing. The hall of audience was a dark room, eighty to ninety feet long, and its whitewashed walls were hung with rusty fetters and bright matchlocks. At the further end, on a common East Indian cane sofa, sat a small yellow personage――the great man. He wore a flowing robe of crimson cloth edged with snowy fur, and a narrow white turban twisted round a tall conical cap of red velvet. Ranged in double ranks perpendicular to the presence and nearest to the chief were his favourites and courtiers, with right arms bared after the fashion of Abyssinia. Prolonging these parallel lines towards the door were Galla warriors, wild men with bushy wigs. Shining rings of zinc on their arms, wrists, and ankles formed their principal attire. They stood motionless as statues; not an eye moved, and each right hand held up a spear with an enormous head of metal, the heel being planted in the ground.

I entered with a loud “As ’salem alaykum”――“Peace be upon ye!”――and the normal answer was returned. A pair of chamberlains then led me forward to bow over the chief’s hand. He directed me to sit on a mat opposite to him, and with lowering brow and inquisitive glance he asked what might be my business in Harar. It was the crisis. I introduced myself as an Englishman from Aden coming to report that certain changes had taken place there, in the hope that the “cordial intent” might endure between the kingdoms of Harar and England.

The Amir smiled graciously. I must admit that the smile was a relief to me. It was a joy to my attendants, who sat on the ground behind their master, grey-brown with emotion, and mentally inquiring, “What next?”

The audience over, we were sent to one of the Amir’s houses, distant about one hundred paces from the palace. Here cakes of sour maize (fuba), soaked in curdled milk, and lumps of beef plenteously powdered with pepper, awaited us. Then we were directed to call upon Gerad Mohammed, Grand Vizier of Harar. He received us well, and we retired to rest not dissatisfied with the afternoon’s work. We had eaten the chief’s bread and salt.

During my ten days’ stay at Harar I carefully observed the place and its people. The city was walled and pierced with five large gates, flanked by towers, but was ignorant of cannon. The streets――narrow lanes strewed with rocks and rubbish――were formed by houses built of granite and sandstone from the adjacent mountains. The best abodes were double storied, long and flat roofed, with holes for windows placed jealously high up, and the doors were composed of a single plank. The women, I need hardly say, had separate apartments. The city abounded in mosques――plain buildings without minarets――and the graveyards were stuffed with tombs――oblongs formed by slabs placed edgeways in the ground.

The people, numbering about eight thousand souls, had a bad name among their neighbours. The Somali say that Harar is a “paradise inhabited by asses”; and “hard as the heart of Harar” is a byword. The junior members of the royal family were imprisoned till wanted for the throne. Amongst the men I did not see a handsome face or hear one pleasant voice. The features were harsh and plain, the skin was a sickly brown, the hair and beard were short and untractable, and the hands and feet were large and coarse. They were celebrated for laxity of morals, fondness for strong waters, much praying, coffee-drinking, and chewing tobacco and kat, a well-known theme plant. They had a considerable commerce with the coast, which was reached by a large caravan once a year.

The women were beautiful by the side of their lords. They had small heads, regular profiles, straight noses, large eyes, mouths almost Caucasian, and light brown skins. The hair, parted in the centre and gathered into two large bunches behind the ears, was covered with dark blue muslin or network, whose ends were tied under the chin. Girls collected their locks, which were long, thick, and wavy――not wiry――into a knot _à la Diane_; a curtain of short close plaits escaping from the bunch fell upon the shoulders. The dress was a wide frock of chocolate or indigo-dyed cotton, girt round the middle with a sash; before and behind there was a triangle of scarlet with the point downwards. The ornaments were earrings and necklaces of black buffalo horn, the work of Western India. The bosom was tattooed with stars, the eyebrows were lengthened with dyes, the eyes were fringed with antimony, and the palms and soles were stained red. Those pretty faces had harsh voices, their manners were rude, and I regret to say that an indiscreet affection for tobacco and honey wine sometimes led to a public bastinado.

At Harar was a university which supplied Somaliland with poor scholars and crazy priests. There were no endowments for students――learning was its own reward――and books (manuscripts) were rare and costly. Only theology was studied. Some of the graduates had made a name in the Holy Land of Arabia, where few ranked higher than my friend Shaykh Jami el Berteri. To be on the safer side he would never touch tobacco or coffee. I liked his conversation, but I eschewed his dinners.

Harar――called Gay or Harar Gay by her sons――is the capital of Hadiyah, a province of the ancient Zala empire, and her fierce Moslems nearly extirpated Christianity from Shoa and Amara. The local Attila Mohammed Gragne, or the “Left-Handed,” slew in 1540 David III., the last Ethiopian monarch who styled himself “King of Kings.”

David’s successor, Claudius, sent imploring messages to Europe, and D. Joao III. ordered the chivalrous Stephen and Christopher da Gama, sons of Vasco da Gama, to the rescue. The Portuguese could oppose only three hundred and fifty muskets and a rabble rout of Abyssinians to ten thousand Moslems. D. Christopher was wounded, taken prisoner, and decapitated. Good Father Lobo declares that “where the martyr’s head fell, a fountain sprung up of wonderful virtue, which cured many hopeless diseases.”

Eventually Gragne was shot by one Pedro Leao, a Portuguese soldier who was bent upon revenging his leader’s fall. The Moslem’s wife, Tamwalbara, prevented the dispersion of the army, making a slave personate her dead husband, and drew off his forces in safety. A strong-minded woman!

My days at Harar were dull enough. At first we were visited by all the few strangers of the city, but they soon thought it prudent to shun us. The report of my “English brethren” being on the coast made them look upon me as a mufsid, or dangerous man. The Somali, on the other hand, in compliment to my attendants, were most attentive. It was harvest home, and we had opportunity of seeing the revels of the threshers and reapers――a jovial race, slightly “dipsomaniac.”

Harar also was the great half-way house and resting place for slaves between Abyssinia and the coast. In making purchases, the adage was, “If you want a brother in battle, buy a Nubian; if you would be rich, an Abyssinian; if you require an ass, a negro.”

I sometimes called upon the learned and religious, but not willingly――these shaykhash, or reverend men, had proposed detaining me until duly converted and favoured with a “call.” Harar, like most African cities, was a prison on a large scale. “You enter it by your own will; you leave it by another’s,” is the pithy saw.

At length, when really anxious to depart, and when my two Somali had consulted their rosaries for the thousandth time, I called upon the Gerad Mohammed, who had always been civil to us. He was suffering from a chronic bronchitis. Here, then, lay my chance of escaping from my rat-trap. The smoke of some brown paper matches steeped in saltpetre relieved him. We at once made a bargain. The minister was to take me before the Amir and secure for me a ceremonious dismission. On the other part, I bound myself to send up from the coast a lifelong supply of the precious medicine. We both kept faith. Moreover, after returning to Aden I persuaded the authorities to reward with handsome presents the men who held my life in their hands and yet did not take it.

After a pleasing interview with the Amir, who did his best to smile, we left Harar on January 13th, 1855. At Sagharah, where the villagers had prayed the death-prayer as we set out for the city, we were received with effusion. They now scattered over us handfuls of toasted grain, and they danced with delight, absorbing copious draughts of liquor. The “End of Time” wept crocodile’s tears, and the women were grateful that their charms had not been exposed to the terrible smallpox.

After a week’s rest we prepared to make the coast. I was desirous of striking Berbera, a port south of Zayla, where my friends awaited me. The escort consented to accompany me by the short direct road, on condition of travelling night and day. They warned me that they had a blood feud with all the tribes on the path, that we should find very little water and no provisions, and that the heat would be frightful. Truly, a pleasant prospect for a weary man!

But if they could stand it, so could I. The weaker attendants, the women, and the camels were sent back by the old path, and I found myself _en route_ on January 26th, accompanied by my two Somali and by a wild guide known as Dubayr――the “Donkey.” My provaunt for five days consisted of five biscuits, a few limes, and sundry lumps of sugar.

I will not deny that the ride was trying work. The sun was fearful, the nights were raw and damp. For twenty-four hours we did not taste water; our brains felt baked, our throats burned, the mirage mocked us at every turn, and the effect was a kind of monomania. At length a small bird showed us a well and prevented, I believe, our going mad. The scenery was uniform and uninteresting――horrid hills upon which withered aloes raised their spears; plains apparently rained upon by showers of fire and stones, and rolling ground rich only in “wait a bit” thorns, made to rend man’s skin and garment. We scrupulously avoided the kraals, and when on one occasion the wild people barred the way we were so intolerably fierce with hunger and thirst that they fled from us as though we were fiends. The immortal Ten Thousand certainly did not sight the cold waters of the Euxine with more delight than we felt when hailing the warm bay of Berbera. I ended that toilsome ride to and from Harar of two hundred and forty miles at 2 a.m. on January 30th, 1855, after a last spell of forty miles. A glad welcome from my brother expeditionists soon made amends for past privations and fatigues.

* * * * *

And now to recount the most unpleasant part of my first adventure in East Africa.

Having paid a visit to Aden, I returned to Berbera in April, 1855, prepared to march upon the head waters of the Nile.

But Fate and the British authorities were against me. I had done too much――I had dared to make Berbera a rival port. They were not scrupulous at Aden, even to the taking of life.

My little party consisted of forty-two muskets, including three officers and myself. The men, however, were not to be trusted, but after repeated applications I could not obtain an escort of Somali policemen. Matters looked ugly, and the more so as there was no retreat.

The fair of Berbera, which had opened in early October, was breaking up, and the wild clansmen were retiring from the seaboard to their native hills. The harbour rapidly emptied; happily, however, for us, a single boat remained there.