Into the Niger Bend: Barsac Mission, Part 1 Page 8

  But all good things must come to an end. After five minutes of this hullabaloo we have to stop, worn out. Mlle Mornas laughs till she cries.

  It's on the evening of this very day that the undersigned, Amedee Florence, gets very indiscreet. To tell the truth, this is a fault I'm prone to, the besetting sin of the journalist.

  So, this very evening, chance having placed my tent beside that of Mlle Mornas, I'm just going to He down when I hear talking next door. Instead of closing my ears, I listen. That's my sin.

  Mlle Mornas is talking to her servant, Tongane. He repfies in a very weird Engfish, which I translate for my readers' benefit. No doubt the conversation has been going on for some time. She's asking Tongane about his life. As I begin pricking up my ears, she says:

  "How did an Ashanti like you...."

  Hullo! So Tongane isn't a Bambara! I wouldn't have thought it.

  ". . . become a Senegalese Tirailleur? You told me once, when I engaged you, but I have forgotten."

  Illusion or not, I don't feel she's sincere. Tongane replies. It was after Captain Blazon...."

  Blazon? . . . That name recalls something. But what? Still listening, I rummage among my memories.

  "I was taking part in that expedition," Tongane goes on, "when the English came and opened fire on us."

  "Do you know why they opened fire?" asks Mlle Mornas.

  "Because Captain Blazon had rebelled, and he was robbing and murdering everywhere."

  "Is that true?"

  "Quite true. They were burning the villages. They were killing the poor Negroes, the women, the little children...."

  "And was it Captain Blazon who ordered such cruelties?" Mlle Mornas insists; her voice seems different.

  "No," replies Tongane. "We never saw him. He never came out of his tent since the other white man came. It was he who gave us orders in the Captain's name."

  "Had he been with you long, this other man?"

  "Yes, a long time. Perhaps five or six months."

  "Where did you meet him?"

  "The bush."

  "And Captain Blazon had welcomed him at once?"

  "They never parted, until the day when the Captain no longer left his tent."

  "And I suppose it was after that day that the cruelties began?"

  Tongane hesitates. "I do not know," he declares.

  "But that white man," Mlle Mornas asks. "Do you remember his name?"

  At that moment a noise outside drowns the voice of Tongane I don't know his reply. After all, it's nothing to me. Whatever it might be, that story isn't uptodate, and so it doesn't interest me much.

  "What happened after the English opened fire on you?" Mlle Mornas continues.

  "I told you that when you engaged me at Dakar,"

  Tongane replies. I and some of the others, we were frightened, and we escaped into the bush. When I came back nobody was left where they'd been fighting. There were only the dead. I buried several, my own friends, and also the chief, Captain Blazon."

  At that point I hear a stifled exclamation.

  "After that," Tongane continues, "I wandered from village to village and reached the Niger. At last I came to Timbuctoo, just as the French were entering. It took me over five years to make the journey. At Timbuctoo I joined the Tirailleurs, and when I was discharged I went to Senegal, where you met me."

  After a moment's silence, Mlle Mornas goes on: "So Captain Blazon is dead?"

  "Yes, missy."

  "And you were the one who buried him?"

  "Yes, missy."

  "Then you know where his grave is?"

  Tongane laughs. "Yes indeed," he says. I could go there with my eyes shut."

  Again a silence, then I hear: "Good night, Tongane"

  "Good night, missy," the Negro replies; he leaves the tent and makes off.

  Mlle Mornas turns in, and I'm doing the same without dawdling. But hardly have I put out my lantern when the memory returns.

  Blazon? Why the devil didn't I recognize it? Where was my head? What a splendid scoop I missed that dayl

  I was on the Diderot at that time, and, if my personal reminiscence may be forgiven, I had suggested to my chief that I should go and interview the rebel captain on the very scene of his crimes. For months he boggled at the expense. When at last he agreed, it was too late. At Bordeaux, just as I was about to set off, I heard that Captain Blazon was dead.

  Now all that is ancient history, and you may ask why I have related this unexpected conversation between Tongane and his "Missy". ... To tell the truth, I hardly know myself.

  On the 8th December, I once more find in my notebook the name of St. Berain. He is inexhaustible, that St. Berain. This time it was nothing, but it amused us. Perhaps it may amuse you, too!

  We've been travelling two hours in the morning's stage when there's St. Berain suddenly bursting into inarticulate cries and bouncing about most joyfully on his steed. We are already beginning to laugh sympathetically. But St. Berain, he does not laugh. He painfully puts his feet on the ground and claps his hand on that part of his anatomy on which he usually sits, meanwhile making inexplicable contortions.

  We hurry up to him and enquire: "What's gone wrong?"

  "The fish hooks ...!" he murmurs mournfully.

  The fish hooks? That doesn't tell us anything. It's only later, when the damage has been repaired that we understand what he means.

  You may not have forgotten that, when, just as we were leaving Konakry, St. Berain, recalled by the voice of his aunt (or of his niece) had come hurrying to join us, he had been stuffing a handful of fish hooks into his pocket. Naturally he hadn't given them another thought. It was the said fish hooks which were now taking vengeance on his forgetfulness. A careless movement had interposed them between the saddle and the horseman, and three of them had implanted themselves solidly in their owner's flesh.

  It takes the intervention of Dr. Chatonnay to free St. Berain. Three slashes of his scalpel are enough, but the doctor cannot keep from accompanying them with an appropriate commentary. And he laughs as though he were enjoying it!

  "Anyone would say you've had a bite'!" he remarks as he proceeds to examine the scene of operations.

  "Wow!" is the only reply of St. Berain, who has just been taken off the first hook.

  "Good fishing, it's a fine catch!" is the doctor's second remark.

  "Wow!" St. Berain cries anew.

  Then, for the third: "You can pride yourself on having made the finest catch of the season," the good doctor compliments him.

  "Wow!" St. Berain sighs for the last time.

  The operation's over. It now only remains to bandage the patient, who then remounts his horse, where during the next two days he adopts some remarkable attitudes.

  On the 12th December we reach Boronya. This would be a small village like all the others if it hadn't the advantage of owning a particularly amiable chief. This chief, who is quite young, hardly more than seventeen or eighteen years old, makes many gestures, and gives some blows of his whip to his inquisitive people when they try to come too close to us. He rushes up to us, his hand on his heart, and makes a thousand promises of friendship, to which we respond by offering him salt, gunpowder, and two razors. The sight of these treasures makes him dance with joy.

  By way of thanking us, he orders a number of straw huts to be built outside the village for us to sleep in. When I take possession of mine, I find the natives very busy flattening the ground and covering it with dried ox skin. I ask them why the luxury of such a carpet; they reply that it is to keep the white maggots from coming out of the ground. I express pleasure with their attention, and reward them with a handful of cowries. So delighted are they that they at once spit on the walls and rub in the spittle with the palms of their hands. St. Berain, who is to share my hut ,and who is there, for a wonder!, tells me that this is to show me honour. Many thanks!

  On the 13th December, in the morning, we reach Timbo without incident. This agglomeration, the most important we have passed s
o far, is surrounded by a tata, a wall of compressed earth, behind which a wooden scaffolding is raised to serve as a sort of circular road.

  The tata of Timbo really encloses three villages, separated from each other by great stretches of cultivated or wooded land, where the domesticated animals wander freely. In each of the villages there is a small daily market, but in the largest a larger market is held weekly

  One hut in every four is left unoccupied. It is filled with rubbish and miscellaneous filth, as indeed are the streets. The place is certainly short of sweepers. It's not only dirty, it's poverty stricken. We have seen children, most of them as thin as skeletons, looking for food among the garbage. As for the women, they are repulsively ugly, which, however, does not keep them from being, by all native standards, stylish.

  Timbo, as I had explained is the first centre of any importance that we've reached. So we halt there for two days, the 13th and 14th December. Not that we are very tired, but the beasts of burden, and those other beasts, the porters, show a quite understandable weariness.

  During these forty-eight hours we've made, one or another of us, a number of excursions within the limits of the tata, but don't expect me to give descriptions which you will find quite easily and at great length in the special treatises. My own task suits me. it inspires me, but I haven't the soul of a geographer. Let this be said once and for all.

  The day after our arrival, the 14th, we've been greatly perturbed because of our guide. We searched for him all day, but in vain. Morilire had disappeared.

  But you can be reassured. On the 15th, when we are to set off, he's back at his post, and when we wake up he has already distributed enough blows of his truncheon for the muleteers to have no doubt about his being there. Asked by M. Barsac, MoriIire holds to it that he had never left the camp the day before. As we are in fact not quite certain, and as the matter is not very important, for Morilire can easily be excused for having wanted to "go ashore" as the sailors say, do not press it, and the incident is closed.

  We leave Timbo, then, on 15th December, at the usual hour, and our journey continues all day without special difficulty, and according to the usual timetable. It is to be noted, however, that the hoofs of our horses no longer disturb the soil of the road we've previously followed. That route, beyond Timbo, has little by little become a mere footpath. So now we've really become explorers.

  Another change: the country has become more varied. There's nothing but ascents and descents. On leaving Timbo, we have first to climb a fairly lofty hill and then to descend it. The hill is followed by a plain, then comes another hill up to Daouheriko village, beside which we have to stop to camp for the night

  Men and animals being well rested, we travel faster than usual, and when we arrive at the village it's only six in the evening.

  The most friendly greetings await us. The chief comes up to us and offers us gifts. M. Barsac thanks him. Cries of welcome respond.

  "They didn't welcome me any more warmly when I was at Aix," M. Barsac says with satisfaction. "I knew it. You've only got to talk to them."

  He seems to be right, although M. Baudriere shakes his head sceptically.

  However, the village headman continues to be amiable. He offers to put us up in the finest huts of the village, and begs our fair comrade to accept the hospitality of his own dwelling. This warm welcome touches our hearts, and the rest of our journey seems rose-coloured until Malik, coming up to Mlle Mornas, says hurriedly and softly:

  "You not go, missy! You die!"

  Mlle Mornas looks at her in amazement. It goes without saying that I am listening, as is the duty of a self-respecting reporter. But Captain Marcenay is listening also, although it isn't his job. At first he seems surprised. Then, after a short reflection, he decides.

  He at once gets rid of the importunities of the headman and gives orders to make camp. I listen, and conclude that we are well protected.

  These precautions make me thoughtful. The captain, who knows Negro-land, does he believe in the danger Malik warns us about?

  Then?...

  Then I must ask myself this question before going to sleep:

  "Which is right, M. Barsac or M. Baudrieres?" Perhaps I shall know tomorrow. In the meantime, I'm perplexed.

  Amedee Florence.

  CHAPTER VI

  M. AMEDEE FLORENCE'S THIRD

  ARTICLE

  The third article from its special correspondent with the Barsac Mission appeared in L'Expansion Francaise on 5th February. For reasons then unexplained, this was the last communication which that journal received from its able reporter.

  THE BARSAC MISSION

  (From our special correspondent)

  Kankan, 24th December. We arrived here yesterday morning and we are setting off early to-morrow, on Christmas Day.

  Christmas! ... My thought flies back to la patrie, so far away. (Four hundred miles beyond Konakry). I dream, with a yearning I would never thought possible, of plains covered with snow; and, for the first time for many years, I feel a strong desire to place my feet on the hearth, which would at least prove that I had one.

  But we mustn't linger; let us return to the point where we left the proceedings of the Barsac Mission.

  As I said in my earlier article, at the moment when the headman of the people of Daouheriko invited us to accept their hospitality, Malik told Mlle Momas in her own language:

  "Don't go there! It will cost you your life!"

  That sentence, which the Captain understood, inspired the decision for us to camp outside the village, just where we had halted. Captain Marcenay, after a discussion with Malik, gives orders covering the situation, and tells the natives to clear out. They do not go without protesting their goodwill, but the Captain will not let himself be swayed, and tells them firmly to go to their own quarters and not to come with five hundred yards of our camp. It will soon be seen that these precautions were not in vain.

  M. Baudrieres, faithful friend of prudence, strongly approves this course, although he does not know its reasons. M. Barsac, on the other hand, who is already seeing himself borne in triumph through laurel arches decorated with tricolour ribbons, cannot conceal his disgust.

  No sooner have the natives withdrawn than he comes up to Captain Marcenay, who is standing a couple of paces from me, so that I lose nothing of the scene, and says in a brusque and angry voice: "Who is in charge here, Captain?"

  "You, Monsieur le Depute," replies the officer, coldly but politely.

  "Then why, without asking my opinion, have you given orders to camp instead of accepting the inhabitants' hospitality? And why have you driven off these good Negroes, who had the kindest intentions towards us?"

  With almost a theatrical sense of timing, the Captain waits a moment and then replies calmly:

  "Monsieur le Depute, if, as Chief of the Mission, you are entitled to choose the route and regulate the march as you think best, I too have my duty to perform, which is to protect you. It is true that I should have warned you and told you my reasons, but I wished first to attend to more urgent duties. I ask you to overlook it if I have neglected that...."

  So far, so good. Captain Marcenay has expressed regret for his remissness, and M. Barsac could feel satisfied. Unfortunately, possibly a rivalry of a very different kind has had something to do with it, the captain is nervous, although he has been keeping himself under control, and he lets slip a clumsy word which sets fire to the gunpowder.

  "If I have neglected that formality," he ends.

  "Formality!" repeats M. Barsac, red with anger.

  He is from the Midi, M. Barsac, and the folk of the Midi are said to have quicksilver in their veins. I feel that some foolishness is likely.

  Trembling with anger, he continues: "And now, at least, will you deign to let me know your motives? They must certainly be strong for you to feel them so much?"

  There, I say to myself, there's the rub. It's now the captain's turn to be annoyed. He replies in a dry tone: "I've just heard of a plot a
gainst us."

  "A plot!" M. Barsac exclaims ironically. "Among these good Negroes! At twenty miles from Timbo! . . . Well, really!... And who told you about this 'plot'?"

  You ought to hear how he pronounces the word "plot".

  He puffs out his cheeks and rolls his eyes. Heavens, he must think he's back in Marseilles!

  The Captain replies laconically, "Malik."

  M. Barsac begins to laugh. And what a laugh!

  "Malik! That little slave that I bought for a handful of sous!"

  He exaggerates. First of all, Malik is not a slave, seeing that there's not a slave in French territory. A Deputy ought to know that. And then, Malik was quite expensive. It was as much as twenty-five francs that she cost, plus an old gun and a piece of cloth.

  None the less he continues: "For a few sous! There's a fine authority, indeed, and I agree you ought to have been frightened."

  The captain feels the blow. At the word "frightened" he makes a face. He controls himself, but you can feel that he's boiling over with fury.

  "You will allow me not to share your alarm," M. Barsac goes on, however, he too is getting more and more annoyed. "I am going to be a hero! So I'm going to the village to sleep, and I'll conquer that robber's lair all by myself."

  I can foresee all sorts of foolishness. But I am forestalled.

  "I am not advising you," replies the captain, giving tit for tat. "I don't know if Malik is, or is not, mistaken, but as it's doubtful I must take the course which prudence demands. I repeat that I am responsible for your safety. My instructions on this point are formal, and I shall not neglect them, if need be, in spite of you."

  "In spite of me!"

  "So if you try to infringe the orders of the military commandant and leave the camp, I shall regretfully have to place you under guard in your tent. And now I am at your service, Monsieur le Deputed I have to see to the camps being set up, and I have no leisure to argue further. I have the honour to wish you good night."