homesick—off to england—at colombo—the stowaway—home again—the wandering fever returns—reflections—outbound for west africa—on the west coast—king lobenguela—a native chief speaks—the jungle—king buloa and the native ceremony—an african caprice—music—a white man among wild men—nigeria—a native funeral—night in the jungle—gold mines—the african drum
about this time i became homesick and tried to find a berth on one of the homebound boats. i eventually secured a job on a tramp steamer, the s.s. p——. there was nothing exceptional on the trip except the monotony of the ship’s routine. we called at hobart, tasmania, and after experiencing stiflingly hot weather crossing the indian ocean eventually arrived at colombo. the natives came clambering on board and attempted to take possession of all our portable property. they are a dark mahogany-coloured people, a cheerful-looking folk. all their actions seem to be guided by a strong commercial instinct. loaded with bunches of bananas, and baskets of oranges and limes, they ran about the decks, bargaining for old shirts and cast-off clothing. over the vessel’s side floated their outrigger catamarans, swarming with dark, almost nude men and women. swimming in the sea were their children, shouting, “i dive, i dive,” as they looked up to the passengers on deck, who threw pennies into the sea. as the coin reached the water down went their heads and up their legs, as like frogs they all dived down into the depths in a mad race to secure the coveted coin, which is never lost. at the moment when it seems impossible for them to live so long under the water the calm surface of the sea trembles at the spot where the coin was thrown in and up come a score of frizzly heads from the ocean’s depth, and the winner holds the prize between his teeth.
about a week or so after leaving colombo we entered the suez canal. it was night. as the boats enter the canal a searchlight is fixed on to the fo’c’sle head to illumine the narrow waterway that flows ninety miles across the desert. it must be an impressive sight from the desert, the steamer going across like some mammoth beast, with a monster eye in front and the port-holes pulsing light in the iron sides as the steamer moves along.
i remember one incident that happened before we passed the canal that night. i was standing by the starboard alleyway dreaming, and watching the stars glittering over the desert, as the engines took the steamer along at about four knots an hour, when a rustling noise behind some barrels startled me. it was quite dark, and the decks were silent, for most of the passengers were asleep. wondering what on earth could be stirring in the gloom, i leaned forward and saw two bright eyes looking out between some casks, and a soft voice crying out said something to me in a language which i did not understand. it was a pretty little arab maid, a stowaway, who had crept on board at ismailia, where we had stopped for one hour. i lifted her up tenderly; she was as black-skinned as night and only wore a tiny loin-cloth. she raised her bright eyes and was crying; but i took her along the alleyway and down below, and by kindness reassured her. we gave her a good feed and then, tired out, she fell asleep in my bunk, and i slept on the sea-chests in the cabin. in the morning she danced to us in our berth and caused us great merriment. we sneaked her ashore at port said, where she had friends; she had stowed away so as to reach them. we gave her plenty of food to take off with her, and we were sorry to see her go; she was only about seven years old!
three weeks after leaving port said we arrived in england and berthed at tilbury docks. the atmosphere of primeval lands, shining under tropic suns and glorious stars, faded to a far-off dream as the dull, drab-grey of english skies drenched the wharves and the shouting dock labourers.
as the days wore on once again the roaming fever turned my thoughts to the sea, with all the splendour of its grand uncertainty, its devilish irony and vicissitudes. though the glamour of romance had faded, yet my wanderings and turbulent experiences had completely unsettled me; indeed they had unfitted me for the humdrum commercial existence which i should have had to follow had i made up my mind to settle in my own country, assume respectability, and hide, as beneath a cloak, my inherent vagabond nature. the feathered quill pen at the desk would have fluttered to fly, held by my sympathetic hand.
the old wandering fever still gripped me. i was always wanting to be off into the uncertainty, to be buffeting round the capes of unknown seas, exploring for the marvellous unexpected, standing on the decks of imagination, under the flying moonlit sails of glorious illusion, singing wild, mad chanteys over wonderful argosies of schemes that could never be realised!
yes, to be ashore on some far-away isle, clasping the savage maid in your arms by the coco-palms, gazing in the delicious orbs of the universe—infinity in beams of eyelight. to breathe the present, yet be alive in the past, far away down the centuries of the modern dark ages! to walk by primeval forest and tumbling moonlit seas where they break over coral reefs. to rest by camp fires and huts, talking with bush women and men, and girls with sparkling eyes, eyes clear as heaven with her moon and stars. to be back in the splendid aboriginal darkness of—as it was in the beginning.
yet alas! as i dream the faint, immodest blush of dawn tints the distant sky-line. it is the birth of grief and beauty; awakening sunrise is agleam in her warm eyes; her sandals are dipped in fire and the stars are in her hair. onward she creeps, in the beauty of her maiden nakedness, cloaked in glorious, unreal tinsel and grief. blushing like a goddess she comes, treading the sky! the glorious, wonderful harlot—civilisation!
it was a grey day when i next found myself outbound, going down channel on a tramp steamer for the canary isles and sierra leone. i had often wished to go to west africa, and so, when the opportunity came, i did not hesitate.
i will not dwell at any length on the events that preceded my arrival on the west coast, but will briefly give my impression of things as they appeared to me in those days.
you cannot, however imaginative you may be, imagine you are elsewhere than on the gold coast. the atmosphere of the moist jungle, the barbarian hubbub of excited native voices, the beating of the tom-toms in the far-off villages, the toiling natives, driven by the loud-voiced white overseer of the gold mines, continually remind you that you are in the barbarian paradise of unconventionality.
for miles and miles the primeval jungle stretches; and standing on the hill-tops you can see the far-off native huts looking like groups of peg-tops against the sunset.
on the higher slopes, by the gold mines, stand the bungalows of the white men. they are comfortable inside and well furnished, sheltered from the blazing sunlight by mahogany and palm trees. the white men who are employed on the mines loaf about near them and the gold coast natives supply their wants. for a brass ring, or a piece of sham jewellery, they can purchase native labour, and for a pound or so buy dusky female slaves, whom they call “mammies.” virtue is not the most prominent characteristic of gold coast natives.
as the white men sit in those bungalows by night they can hear the native drums beating far away, and watch the lizards and scorpions slipping across the moonlight of their bedroom walls, and, maybe, hear their comrade in the next bungalow raving in the delirium of fever. malaria, black-water fever and other things often end the exile’s career. at night the living can dream and think of home, and watch from their bungalow doors the little white stones and crosses glimmering in the african moonlight in the hollows where the homesick dead white men lie asleep.
settler’s home, gold coast
though the gold mines lay all round, gold was not the essential requirement. a bottle of english beer, placed on a post by a bungalow or graveyard, would make a dead white man sit up and grasp it. missionaries had been on the gold coast for years trying to reform the natives, who many of them had embraced christianity. they often asked us mysterious questions about the white man’s land, as though they were puzzled and could not fathom the meaning of it all. they had a faint idea that england was a land of some beautiful golden age, where sin was unknown; otherwise, why did the white men come across the seas to preach to them when the natives were so contented with their lot, and wished the missionaries to hell? so spoke king lobenguela. he was a powerful fellow and when he walked looked very majestic, as he trailed his heavy blanket behind him. he lived in a palatial kraal and had a multitude of slaves, who washed his feet continually. he had embraced christianity, and went off across the jungle to the mission room three times daily, and all day on sunday. he was a typical specimen of african aristocrat and spoke fairly good english. his one intense wish was to see english royalty, and confer some honourable degree upon them for bringing to his dominion salvation and sacramental rum, which he drank by the barrel. the one ambition of the chiefs seemed to be to take the sacrament. there they are out there, with all the old instincts very much the same, notwithstanding the introduction of christianity. when the white races have educated them, and equipped them with scientific weapons of warfare, who knows? they may assert their individuality, and strive to get their stolen countries back again. the truth is often spoken in earnest! it is as well to remember that in those vast african territories many millions of fine native men dwell, with a muscular power and patriotism equal to that of the peoples of civilised lands. the moving finger of destiny has always suddenly pointed to the hour of mighty events, with an ironical grin at our unprepared consternation.
the west african bush-land is the wildest under the sun. nothing but short bush jungle and vast forests meets your gaze as you wander on from sky-line to sky-line in your caravan, and, as a ship passes islands on the trackless south seas, often you pass a native village and hear the tom-toms beating away at their mysterious sound codes.
in those isolated villages, far beyond the outposts of civilisation, you will sometimes come across a white man who dwells alone with his memories. sunk to a semi-barbarian state, they live with the natives, who have a deep reverence for them and their superior knowledge. they live on mealie broth and nut milk, and dress in the native style. when the white stranger from far off is seen approaching the native village he is carefully scanned through a telescope by the white exile ere the latter shows himself outside the native kraals.
men of the civilised western cities do not dream of the sad dramas of life that are hidden away from their knowledge far beyond the outposts of advanced civilisation. london audiences cheer and weep in the theatres as the curtain drops before the footlights over the mock-hero’s grief. but oh! if they knew of the great unknown, the sorrowful dramas behind the awful curtain of reality.
while i was on the coast i made the acquaintance of an elderly tourist who was gathering material for a book of experiences. he was extremely fond of music, cheerful, and a keen observer of character. when he proposed to me that i should accompany him on his travels i was very delighted and at once agreed. we went by boat round the coast—he paid all my expenses—and visited a host of villages, finally going as far as bamban and krue, and many places whose names i have now forgotten.
i remember many incidents of those early days, especially a white-whiskered old chief whose name was tamban. he was about seventy years of age, and had a wrinkled, wise-looking face and a bald pate. he loved to sit by his kraal, wrapped in his big brown blanket, and speak native wisdom.
he was dead against the white men, and at heart was a genuine old heathen, and no fool either. though he professed to have embraced christianity, and possessed a bible, he had sold many square miles of his dominion to white men, over and over again signing the documentary deeds, with many expressions of loyalty and blessings on the great white queen. it was afterwards found out that he had sold the same land to scores of different white speculators, who opened syndicates in london and sold shares to the unwary.
when he was in liquor he would reveal the true thoughts that burnt silently within him and longed for utterance. “heathen, me! forsooth, ah! ah! measly, white-faced goat!” he would shout when the missionary approached him. “bring forth the mealie broth and rum, that i may toast these white skunks speedily to their hell!” and saying that he would turn his dark, wrinkled face to the blue tropical sky and lift his war-club, and off rushed his womenkind from the kraal to do his bidding.
then he would turn to the white missionary, who stood with his broad-brimmed panama hat tilted forward to hide the grin on his lips, and thunder forth, his big black lips fairly flopping with drunken passion: “who is this white god that you prate about? liar! show me this one shadow that is better than my fifty gods! show me him, and i will crush him as i do this struggling flea!” and saying this he pulled his dirty blanket the tighter round him and then held up to our gaze a flea between his thumb and forefinger. then, with a sneer on his lips and much blasphemy, he would continue: “give up my fifty gods and trust to one indeed!” and then down he would crash his club, as all his old wives, squatting by the kraal, quivered in their skins. “ah! ah!” he said, and his bright eyes winked humorously at the harem queen, a dusky beauty as black and bare as starlit night swathed in a wisp of vapour; “pass me the bowl full, filled to the rim, mind you.” then he would smack his big lips together and mutter: “tribesmen, the white man’s rum speaks more truth than his god of lies.” the foregoing gives a pretty fair example of the real character of those old native chiefs and kings, who still cling to their old beliefs and yet profess christianity in much the same manner as they do in the islands of the south seas.
my friend and i were always on the move, sometimes riding and at other times walking. we tramped along jungle track for many miles and often passed natives who came by us in their primitive caravans. we would wave our hands to them and watch them go out of sight; for the tracks wind along by deep gullies, swamps and impenetrable forest lands.
we hired two hammock boys. i was pleased, for they carried my violin and my friend’s camera; also a load of photo plates and curios. south sea island heat is wintery compared to the dense, muggy atmosphere of the west coast. by night a white mist creeps out of the primeval jungle glooms; and at dawn the sunrise looks ghostly, as it gleams across the glimmering slopes and gullies, and sparkles a blaze of forked chameleon light on the jungle world. far away the natives are beating the tom-toms in the hidden villages as you walk along like a man asleep and scratch yourself; for each night was a nightmare of restlessness: though we wrapped our feet up and sealed all the holes in our mosquito nets, we did so in vain. the mosquitoes got at us somehow, and their bodies were bloated with our blood long before dawn. ants, too, abound, and they are as big as half-a-walnut shell, and go moving along in vast battalions, attacking friend and foe alike. there are centipedes also, and when one rises from one’s extemporised bed they rush off on a thousand legs to hide from the sudden blaze of light.
thick grass ten feet high, and fern-trees a foot higher, grow on the jungle slopes, and at dusk they are afire with crimson and yellowish blooms, tropical orchids and flowers one has never seen before.
one evening at dusk we arrived at a village called, i think, kafolo. king buloa ruled the dominion, and the priests consulted ju-jus. the ju-ju is a hideous idol, carved to satisfy the heathenish ideas of the african natives, who still worship wood and stone, as the islanders did in the south seas years ago. polynesian islanders are educated gentlemen compared with the usual run of west coast and nigerian natives.
as we crossed the river by a bridge of logs that divided the village from the jungle, we sighted a tiny city of huts. we waved our hands and approached slowly, with a little apprehension. the king (or high chief), dressed in an old pink striped shirt, came out of his kraal and welcomed us. his face looked like a black, gnarled tree trunk carved into human shape, till his thick-lipped mouth opened with a smile revealing three or four remaining teeth. he held over his frizzly head a large white umbrella, a present from some trader, which intensified his dusky shade. out of the huts under the jungle palms came the ebony-coloured population—good-humoured-looking men, women, girls and piccaninnies. the king invited us into his palace. the skulls of fallen foes ornamented the door. we stepped inside the royal kraal and were somewhat surprised by the comfortable surroundings. native tapestry, made of fibre and woven grass of various hues, covered the walls, and the floor of the first apartment was hidden by thick matting, on which squatted several ebony-coloured females, who belonged to the royal harem. as we entered they started jabbering and rolling their dark eyes. chairs and tables covered with matting made up quite a decent amount of furniture, evidently purchased from traders. a ju-ju, surrounded by empty gin bottles, stood in the doorway of the next room. it had fierce-looking glass eyes and a face that looked half human and half crocodile. we expressed delight at all we saw, for we were alone there and felt that by being friendly with the chief we were keeping on the safe side. then the old high chief stood erect and had his photograph taken; he was as pleased as a child with our attentions. i played the violin to him, and he was greatly delighted as i scraped away; his eyes glittered with pleasure and curiosity. i made him hold the violin, and he made several scrapes; his fat lips widened with fright until they reached his ears when the strings wailed. that night, as sunset smudged with a yellowish gleam the misty, heat-laden horizon, and a myriad creeping insects came forth to hum and buzz, mr t—— and i graciously accepted king buloa’s invitation to attend a village ceremony. he made signs to us and said, “much good you like see,” wrapped a large brown blanket, red striped, about him, the very sight of which made us perspire, for the heat was terrific, and majestically slinging one end over his shoulder walked in front of us, to lead the way to the jungle ballroom.
i saw a sight that night which outdid, in grotesqueness and lewdness, anything which i had seen in the south seas. the royal opera box was a square-rigged set of bamboo poles lashed together with strong native fibre. mats slung over the cross-bars made comfortable seats, elevated about six feet, whereon mr t—— and i sat, and the chief with crossed legs in the middle.
four native girls had just reached maidenhood and had been sold to four respective husbands for so many bullocks. it was the custom to confer on such maidens an honour which, to western civilisation, was one of great degradation and shame. afterwards the girls were brought forth to stand in the middle of the cleared jungle, so that the whole tribe could gaze upon them as the festival dancers whirled round them. there they stood before us, revealing a similar timidness to that seen in a young bride at an english wedding. the king started the applause by striking a huge bamboo rod on the side of the primitive opera box as he drank large bowls of palm wine. he was soon drunk, reeled and shouted: “fu fu, ki ki!” the glimpsing moonlight streamed through the palms on to the maidens’ faces and on to the dark hordes of shrieking natives who whirled around them. those erstwhile maids stood embracing each other, then unclasped, chanted and clapped their hands in rhythmic motion, and then, to the delight of the assembly, imitated every gross gesture.
my friend kept close to me and i to him as the besotted king slipped off his seat and fell on to the next rung, still shouting: “ki ki!” one of the maidens was really handsome for a negress; she had fine eyes, full lips and a well-rounded figure of light mahogany colour; the curves of her body resembled a grecian bronze. she stood for a moment perfectly still in the moonlight, with one knee timidly crossing the other, ere she turned to show her comeliness to the admiring audience! as they sang the native orchestra crashed away on tom-toms and wooden drums. some plucked strings that were stretched across gourds; others blew, with their big black lips, at bamboo flutes. they played out of tune, but the tempo of the primitive strains suited the dance exactly. “mvu! mvu!” shouted the king, and then he made signs that i should play. without a moment’s hesitation i held the violin to my chin and played like a happy barbarian, though my heart thumped with apprehension.
again they danced as i played on, and through my brain flashed reminiscences of my tribal solos in samoa and elsewhere. suddenly the circling ring opened and from a hut close by came the dancers for the second act. by the throne they ran, dressed in grotesque festival costume, painted in hideous lines of white from head to foot. they looked like hordes of skeletons from the tribal cemetery jumping round living maidens. so rhythmically did they whirl, and so fantastic was the sight, that they seemed monstrous puppets strung on wires pulled by some mysterious hand in the dark jungle; for often they would stop perfectly still, and then in the moonlight once more whirl away. how the audience of men, women and children stared and clapped as they squatted on their haunches on mats; and they encored just as they do in the music halls of london town when the ladies in tights whirl and jump before fascinated audiences.
there i sat with t——, gasping with curiosity as the king thumped, and playing on, far happier than when, dressed in an evening suit and tight, high collar, i fiddled in city orchestras, playing every night the accompaniments of the poor hits of the day to affected stage voices.
notwithstanding the apparent lewdness, their innocence almost sanctified the smiling scene of dark faces, and i realised that it was but a custom truthfully expressing primeval man’s original idea of the beautiful. so we were not shocked, though we drank deep from the whisky flask to steady our nerves ere the head chief sucked at it.
the tribe encored me, and i played again. to my surprise they got hold of the wild chorus of the scotch reels and whirled around, shrieking it! they had musical voices and, i believe, good ears. the melodies they sang resembled wild laughter in song; the tom-toms banged and the flutes screamed between. this is the mirth music as i memorised it:
next day we were taken round the village and entered many of the native homes. they were snug enough, with sleeping-mats and bamboo furniture, and many boxes with little mats on them. in the corners were maize, yams, kolanuts and gin bottles; the chief ornaments were the skulls of dead relatives. comfortable kraals they were, though the furniture seemed scanty and reminded me of the homes of struggling authors, poets and musicians in the large cities of the world. but these were happier homes; for the heads of the families were unambitious, save that they prayed for copious rains to fall on their yams and mealie patches. the richer natives wore ornamental garments and had honours conferred on them, such as foot-washer or mosquito-squasher to the king. real poverty seemed unknown, and decrepitude and the complainings of old age ceased with the blow of a war-club.
artists engraved pottery, and musicians were much appreciated. poets were applauded, and in all the villages i came across were looked upon as exiled gods. when they spoke their wisdom and native lore were listened to with rapt attention, as though the great god abassi had spoken: a strong contrast to the neglected poets of civilised lands, where poetic voices cry in the wilderness to deaf ears. william watson, robert bridges, chesterton, blakemore, and all the other voices of modern music would have found a large measure of appreciation in that land, had they been born there; for it was an el dorado for poets. as for john masefield and kipling, they would have stood on stumps and sung till all the coast villagers, through sheer poetic delirium, put out to sea for other lands and wild, poetic adventure.
lovers of wagner would have rejoiced to hear the strange primeval music, music that expressed the true barbarian note of joyous or wailing humanity; and after hearing that which i heard they would more easily have understood the deeper meaning of the celebrated maestro’s compositions.
i played several solos to the king next day as he sat in his hut-room, and he touched me with a dead king’s thigh-bone on the neck, and so gave me the equivalent to a british knighthood. we were taken before the favourite harem queens; they blushed and smiled, showing their white teeth, as t—— and i bowed and gesticulated our appreciation of their dusky beauty.
with all their apparent sins they seemed deeply religious. we knew not what their creeds expressed, or on what mythology they were founded. we only knew that abassi and sowoko were great gods, and their subjects were life and death, as in all creeds they must be. their ju-jus were hideous enough to express the agony and ultimate end of all we know and all that is born of flesh. the ju-jus they knelt before were as deaf to their appeals as the images of the virgin mary and other idols of catholic and protestant high churches are.
when we left king buloa we wandered on mile after mile and continually entered other countries; for you cross frontier lines at every river and swamp, and come across tribes who speak a different dialect and worship off-shoot gods: the akanaka tribe, egbosh, apiaongs and many others. on the rivers sailed dug-out canoes, long enough to hold from twelve to fifteen natives, and smaller canoes wherein ebony youths paddled their sweethearts and sang the latest tribal hits.
all the villages were familiar with white men, for traders came long distances, from sierra leone or the gold coast, and from calabar, to bargain for copra and palm-nuts and many other things.
slavery was in vogue, and rich chiefs bought young girls and youths and took them into their homes. i saw a witch scene, much like the scenes i had seen in fiji; hideous old women and men consulted the ju-ju, then haunted the credulous natives with lying stories and prophecies of good and bad things.
i played the violin to several tribes, with the special idea of seeing how my music appealed to them. some were curious only, and others seemed to enjoy the melodies. a native girl from sierra leone sang as i played, and had a really fine voice, with an earnest note in it. i think the west african natives, on the whole, have good, musical ears and a genuine love for music, greater than that of the english people. i have heard native military bands perform, and heard no difference in the playing when compared, of course, with amateur bands in great britain.
the first motor-car in a gold coast village
in one native village we discovered a white man living. he was about fifty years of age, and very grey and sunburnt. at first he was reticent, but t—— got him on some interesting topic, and i played the fiddle, and then he opened out. i cannot tell his name or what he said. he was not hiding, but was sick of life and wished to end his days out there with those wild men. i can still see his blue eyes gazing at us, among the black ones, as the natives stood by their village huts and waved good-bye as we tramped off.
the population of ashanti was very mixed. moors, mohammedans, negroes, arabs and many more, who had emigrated across the sahara to the west coast in ages past, had left their types in the blood of the natives.
we went to accra, akamabu and sekondi, where we stayed with an old chief who was about eighty or ninety years of age. he had white whiskers, and was shrivelled up like a mummy, but he was a most interesting man and spoke good english. he had fought under king osae tutu, the ashanti king who in 1822 defeated the british, who in turn revenged themselves in 1826 on the pra river.
finally t—— and i took boat for lagos and arrived on the coast of nigeria, where we saw native life and tropical bush that differed very little from that which i have already described. all the villages were similar, and their semi-barbarian population lived under their old customs, modified to suit the requirements of the british commissioners. the natives all seemed prosperous and fat; rent and clothes did not trouble them, so they traded, and kept the proceeds for their immediate requirements. the bush was dotted with mahogany, ebony, camwood and yellow-wood trees; rubber and oil-palm were cultivated.
long stretches of dry weather prevailed, and then a thunder-storm came along and seemed to shake the very mountains; the natives put their gourds and calabashes out and the deluge filled them in five minutes. rivers that were tiny brooks rose in half-an-hour and tore along in foaming, swirling torrents, washing a village away. t—— and i saved the life of a native child as it passed us on the thundering flood; it was still in its sleeping-basket and looked up and yawned, only that moment wakened from sleep, as we grabbed it and pulled it ashore. the naked mother came flying towards us, waving her arms; when she saw her baby, and realised we had saved it, she embraced us and wailed with gratitude. we blushed, and after the storm t—— got his camera ready and took her photograph. she was extremely self-possessed; indeed semi-savage african women lack the virtue that white women have—their colour does not reveal their blushes.
one day we saw a native funeral; i think it was at a village called awakar. we were walking along a jungle track some miles from ediba, on the cross river, when we came to the village. it was the evening, in drought weather, and we smelt the village as we approached the clearing. the village orchestra was in full swing. drums, native pipes, clappers, tom-toms and bamboo rattlers, horns made of elephant tusks, all were being used, and made, as you can imagine, a weirdly impressive combination of sounds. a chief was being carried to his last resting-place. we were deeply interested in the scene that met our curious gaze. wailing old men carried the coffin slowly along, and kept spitting, for the weather was muggy and hot. the chief had been dead some days; the coffin lid was unfastened, and we could see the dark, frizzly hair of the dead chief’s head at one end and the toes at the other. myriads of winged insects and flies buzzed above the body and the procession as it moved along. the head chief, who was just behind, kept drinking tumbo (palm wine), which an ebony girl handed to him; and they followed him with a large calabash full to supply his thirst. t—— and i kept to the windward of the procession, and puffed vigorously at our pipes, and holding our noses we walked just by the side of the native military band, that played the death march behind the group. right ahead of the procession, just in front of the hearse of wailing natives, walked eight elderly, stalwart chiefs, who carried a monstrous ju-ju. its hideous, half-human face, with big glass eyes, stared backwards at the coffin and the procession as the whole group moved along. “give me a pull at your flask, t——,” i said; immediately he handed it to me and then took a gulp himself. presently the procession stopped at the far end of the village before a large hut. we made inquiries, and found it was the corpse’s late homestead: the custom was to bury him under the floor.
as they stopped, the sweating hearse of twenty mouths spat, and they lowered their grim burden before the hut-tomb. all the mourners commenced a weird monotone of melody, a melody that had bars in it resembling an english hymn. as we stood at the end of the village watching that heathenish burial, and the high priest lifted his hands and chin up to the big ju-ju’s wooden face in earnest supplication to the gods for that dead man of his diocese, the scent of the jungle blooms came in whiffs to our nostrils. sunset was fading, and as the coffin disappeared in the doorway, and darkness drifted over the whole scene, i seemed to be standing in the dark ages, alone in some vast dream of life’s sad drama. but the jungle bird in the mahogany-tree started to sing sweetly, and then reality stole over the village, and i heard the wails of the mourners sorrowing over the blight of creation; real sorrow it was, and for all its grotesqueness the same as the sorrow of the civilised races. still the bird sang over my head; it was a jungle nightingale passionately pouring forth melody as the native voices afar died away; and i dreamed on till t—— touched me on the arm, for it was getting late and we did not wish to stay on in that particular village.
we slept that night in another village called, i think, eko. i shall always remember it because of the look on my friend’s face as i shaved him. we only had one razor between us, and that was rusty. t—— was terribly scrubby and he said: “can you shave, middleton?” “yes,” i said; and i lathered his smiling face with a mixture of fat and swamp water for twenty minutes, to make up for the razor’s bluntness, and then started on him. he was a handsome fellow, but as i pulled the hairs out in batches his face twisted and contorted till he looked like a ju-ju, and the tiny black piccaninnies of the native village jumped and screamed with joy to see the white man’s terrible grimaces. “be brave,” i said, and away came the skin of his chin. then he performed on me; but i was younger, and only suffered half as much as he had done as he scraped the down from my cheeks.
a few weeks later we bade each other good-bye. i promised to write to him but lost his address. i never saw him again, but i have not forgotten him, as he will see if ever he reads this. i have seldom had a more cheerful or intellectual comrade in my travels than t—— was, and i am sure he created fame by his facial contortions among the village children in the african village eko years ago.
you are never really lonely in the african bush, for as you tramp along the bush tracks with your swag—a flask of whisky and insect powder wrapped up in your mosquito net—strange things follow you, singing and blowing tiny flutes in your ears as they circle round your head, a dancing ring of tiny bodies on wings. some of them hum at sunset, and if you feel poetical you can fancy you are out on the lonely track, with all the stars singing round you, as like some burdened creator you mumble to yourself and move along with your myriad satellites following you. at night you are not companionless, for the festering heat makes you feverish and imaginative. as you lie down to sleep, after closely fortifying yourself from all living, creeping things, the african moon steals up the sky and noises sound in your ears. the hideous ju-ju faces that you saw yesterday in the native village emerge, grinning, from the jungle, to peep and dance all round you; some of them bend over you, put their wooden mouths to your ears and whisper: “englishman, englishman, go home to your people before you are dead.” the fat lizards, gliding up and down the moonlit mahogany tree trunks, swell to a monstrous size as you watch, and jump right through your head; but pale shadow faces creep out of the jungle, faces with blue, kind eyes, and you recognise your own memories as caressing fingers, made of homeland dreams, touch your brow and at last you fall asleep.
i have often rested by the track in the lonely bush while birds puffed their throats and sang to me some sweet refrain that winged my heart overseas to england; and often at sunset a bird would sing a strange song that made me feel as though i had been dead for ages, and the sounds of the native drums in the distant village came from ghostly battalions of the pharaohs, calling me across hills of sleep. my dreams have made me one of the wealthiest travellers on earth. if i can take my best dreams to my grave i shall be happy enough, for i shall own my own heaven and the memory of life’s hell will pass away.
i remember once when i was tramping the australian bush alone i fell asleep in a hollow, and my dead brother, who was lost overboard at sea whilst going out as a sailor to australia, crept out of the gum clumps just by my camp bed and lay beside me. i was happy, and put my arm round him all night long; but i felt very miserable when i awoke and tramped on alone at daybreak. i tell you how i felt, because men feel as well as see when they travel the world.
if we could only creep across the years, and gather in a harvest of our boyish dreams, and live them all again, how happy some of us would be; now our days rush away like the waters of the rivers to the sea: we still call the rivers by the old names, but the singing waters of yesterday have gone for ever.
our dreams are spiritual and beautify our brief existence. when we cease to dream we are truly dead; the memory of yesterday’s dream gilds the hollowness of to-day as flowers sadly beautify old graves. i have often met the dead walking the streets, avaricious skeletons without real eyes, and have touched their cold hands and felt the chill of death. i have also met the living where i least expected it—in savage huts, in wild lands, where the inhabitants gave me their primitive food, with brotherhood or sisterhood breathing through their kind eyes, and then cried and sang as i played my violin to them. a bird singing at sunset, up in the banyans or coco-palms, would appeal to their wild brains; its tuneful throat expressed the voice of some infant goddess of their innocent mythologies: the winds stirring the forests, the noise of waves, all were voices calling to them from shadow-land. when the forests of those isles have disappeared, and the spires of the cities rise everywhere, the thundering wail and crash of the fijian cathedral organ will fail to do that which the small bird did with its tiny, tuneful throat.
i have written of the seamy side of native life, both on the gold coast and elsewhere, but as in everything else the bright side of the sorrow is also there. years have changed many things and the advancement of time has swept much of the dross away. the name of “the white man’s grave” now sounds as primitive as “king of the cannibal isle” in fiji. where once the swamp mist lay yellowish in the hollows, sparkling atmosphere now shines; drainage is plentiful, so the evils have departed. the gold mines are run on advanced scientific and medical lines; forty miles from the coast are the abbontiakoon mines, and the abosso, broomassie, anglo ashanti gold-fields, and many others. right up to nigeria, with its tin mines, all is now healthy and cheerful. elevated bungalows stud the heights round the mines; they are well drained, and as you enter the tent door of those dwellings, half hidden by jungle bananas and palm, you see the white man living in comfort and cleanliness that would often outrival the homes of his native country. the mine-owners pay excellent wages to the whites, and the natives are ruled by fines and kindness; to whip a native, or to strike one, is a dangerous offence.
the gold mines are a blessing to the west coast natives. the wages they receive provide them with plenty for their primitive requirements; but they have to be strictly watched as they dig, for they hate work and will try all possible subterfuges to save digging to the proper depth.
gold is found almost everywhere, but not in payable working quantities. the country is chiefly owned by native kings, who sell their territory to the whites who go that way prospecting. i have met men in london who owned large tracts of jungle-land in west africa, wherein gold, four ounces to the ton, lay. they showed me the deeds, signed by the native king. but the next day i have met another man who owned the very same land and did not know the other owner; for those artful native kings sell the same tract of land to every white man who wants to buy it. so it is well to be careful in buying shares in gold coast mines, though the mines i have mentioned are equal to any in the world, and are equipped with the latest machinery. the managers from london go out there at frequent intervals, and the whole business is worked by educated white men. but for the black-faced natives and the surrounding jungle and bungalows it might be in london’s highest commercial centre. indeed men employed by them are better off than in london, for they give splendid wages, palatial bungalows and medical attention, as well as paying fares out to the coast, and home again when their employee’s time is up.
the bungalows are all on elevated country and are consequently healthy, and now, wherever mines exist on the gold coast and in southern nigeria, you come across smiling englishmen enjoying the wild jungle life and smoking by the bungalow doors, while natives rush about waiting on the gold coast potentates—for such they are. often they go motoring, and the delighted natives go with them in the white man’s wonderful train. when they reach the outlying villages the whole population rushes forth to see the car tear along the jungle track, and if the hooter sounds their black bodies fly off into the jungle in all directions, the piccaninnies too, all frightened out of their lives.
often one hears the tom-toms and native orchestra playing in the distance. the music drifting on the hot night wind across the jungle is impressively weird and carries one away back, back to the barbaric ages.
the african natives for centuries have had a kind of mysterious wireless code. warnings of the approaching enemy are drifted on the winds, from tribe to tribe, travelling through the medium of drum sounds, a tone code of quick taps and slow booms, for hundreds of miles down the coast and across country. if a great chief dies mysterious drums beat and are heard miles away in the next village, where the villagers beat their drums in turn and pass the sounds on; and so it goes onward, to fade with the sunset into the last friendly kraal of the dominion.