by Jules Verne
A carriage was waiting for them in the courtyard of the castle, to take them to Uttoxeter station, about two miles away.
"Where to now?" asked the incorrigible Agenor, who, still distressed by the visit he had just made, did not quite realize that they were leaving Glenor.
Jane contented herself with shrugging her shoulders, and they set out.
But scarcely had they gone five hundred yards when St. Berain, suddenly became amazingly agitated. He could not speak, he seemed to be choking. "My lines! My lines!" he exclaimed at last in a heart rending voice.
They had to return to the castle to look for the famous fishing lines which he had forgotten, and this lost them a good quarter of an hour. When they arrived at the station, the express was in. The travellers only just had time to get aboard, and this made Agenor say, not without a certain vanity:
"This is only the second time in my life that I haven't lost the train."
Jane could not help smiling through her tears, which were still flowing freely.
Thus began a journey which would lead the two explorers into the unknown. Would Jane have undertaken it if she had known what would take place during her absence? Would she have left her unfortunate father if she had suspected the blow which was just about to strike him, just as she was risking her life to save him from despair?
No, nothing could have enabled her to foresee the tragedy which was about to take place in the offices of the Central Bank, nor the infamous accusation of which her brother Lewis would be the object; thinking to help her father, she had left him just at the very moment when her help was needed nearer home.
Brought by too zealous a servant, the news of the disappearance of Robert Lewis Blazon came to the Lord of Glenor on the morning which followed the crime at Old Broad Street. The shock felled him. This descendant of a long line of heroes, this fierce devotee of honour, now learned that of his two sons, not only was one a traitor but the other was a thief!
The wretched old man uttered a stifled groan, clutched at his throat, and dropped on the floor.
The servants crowded around him. They lifted him up. They lavished attentions upon him until at last he opened his eyes.
The look of those eyes was thenceforward the only sign that life had not completely left his stricken heart. If he should live, his body, struck by paralysis, would be condemned to eternal stillness. But even that was not enough to appease the cruelty of fate. Senseless, dumb, inert, Lord Blazon could still think!
And, allowing for the difference in longitude, it was just when her father fell senseless that Jane Blazon, aided by Captain Marcenay, put her foot in the stirrup, and, crossing the bridge which unites Konakry to the continent, really began her travels and took the first step into the mysteries of Darkest Africa.
CHAPTER IV
AN ARTICLE FROM L'EXPANSION
FRANCAISE
On the first of January the readers of L'Expansion Francaise could enjoy the following article. It had a displayed title and it came from die somewhat fantastic pen (it is easy to romance about what is far away!) of their able reporter, M. Amedee Florence, whose readers would willingly excuse its somewhat familiar style:
THE BARSAC MISSION
(From our special correspondent)
In the Bush, 1st December. As I have already explained, the Barsac Mission is to set out today at six in the morning. At that hour we are all ready, including two volunteers who have come to join the eight members official as much as officious, whom we know already. Nobody grumbles at that! One of these volunteers is indeed a ravishing young lady, a Frenchwoman, educated in England, from which she has derived a slight and very agreeable accent. Mademoiselle Jane Mornas, that's her name. The other volunteer, her uncle, provided he isn't her nephew, for we needn't get mixed up in these questions of relationship, is called Agenor de Saint-Berain. He is an eccentric whose vagaries, already a byword in Konakry, make us hope for some cheerful moments.
Mlle Mornas and M. de Saint-Berain are travelling for their pleasure. I should be lacking in any sense of gallantry if I did not add, and for ours. They have brought with them two black servants, formerly Senegalese Tirailleurs, who will act as guides rather than as interpreters, for our two globetrotters speak enough Bambara and several other local dialects. Mlle Mornas, in particular, has a way of greeting us with an Initio (good-morning)! ... I need say no more!
M. Barsac has taken up the word and repeats it at every opportunity, but on his lips it hasn't the same charm.
So, this morning, the first of December, about half past five, here we are assembled on the square of Konakry, before the Residency.
As I explained before, M. Barsac wants to make a peaceful and exclusively civil expedition. As optimistic here as at the tribune of the Chamber, he thinks he has only to appear before the people, olive-branch in hand, in order to turn a march beside the Niger, from Konakry to Kotonou, into a mere constitutional. This is also the idea of Mlle Mornas, who is nervous of frightening the natives by too great a display of force.
But the Barsac-Mornas party has run up against the opposition of the Baudrieres party. The Associate Chief of the Mission, a man who never seems to smile, paints a dark picture of the dangers we are about to run. He speaks of the dignity of a Mission headed by two representatives of the French people and of the prestige we gain from an escort of regular soldiers; and, to our surprise, he is supported by the Governor, M. Valdonne.
Without disputing that French penetration has largely pacified the black country, the Governor repeats what the Minister for the Colonies has already maintained in the Chamber. M. Valdonne tells us that there are facts, mysterious or at least unexplained which prompt the fear that some uprising is being plotted. It seems that, for about ten years and to a greater extent recently, more especially in the Niger region from Say to Djenne, whole villages have been suddenly abandoned and that their inhabitants have vanished, and that other villages have been pillaged and burned, by whom nobody knows. In all, these rumours tend to indicate that something, nobody knows quite what, is afoot in the shadows.
The most elementary prudence therefore compels the Mission to have an armed escort. This consideration has prevailed, to the great satisfaction of M. Baudrieres, and M. Barsac has to resign himself to the protection of Captain Marcenay and his two hundred cavalrymen.
At six o'clock, all is ready. The convoy forms up under the direction of a Negro who has already made the journey from Konakry to Sikasso several times, and who is to be our guide. He is a good fellow of thirty, formerly a dougoukoussadigui (native officer). He wears long-cloth breeches and an old colonial infantryman's tunic with torn and filthy stripes. If his feet are bare, his head, on the contrary, is covered with a linen helmet that once was white decorated with a superb tricolour plume. For emblem of office, he has a thick cudgel by which he can make himself understood by the porters and the muleteers.
Immediately behind him comes Mlle Mornas, escorted by M. Barsac and Captain Marcenay. Well, well! they do not seem oblivious of the young lady's attractions. I should bet that during the journey there's going to be some rivalry. Your readers may rest assured that I'll keep them in touch with the development of that contest.
M. Baudrieres follows that first group, smartly turned out ( did I say we're all on horseback?) but his severe look seems to disapprove of his colleague's showing so plainly how much our amiable companion is to his taste. I glance at him, this Associate Chief, out of the corner of my eye. How thin he is! and cold! and sad! . . . Why, confound it, he doesn't seem to know what smiling is.
Three paces behind the Honourable Deputy from the Nord come the others. Dr. Chatonnay and the geographer are discussing ethnography.... already.
The convoy, correctly so called, comes behind them. It consists of fifty donkeys led by twenty-five muleteers, of whom ten really belong to Mlle Mornas and M. de St. Berain. On the flanks are Captain Marcenay's cavalrymen. As for your humble servant, he makes it his task to canter along the column from one e
nd to the other.
Tchoumouki and Tongane, Mlle Mornas' two servants, form the rearguard.
Exactly at six comes the signal to start. The column moves off. At that moment the Tricolour Flag rises over the Residency. I beg pardon! Let us use some local colour: over the Case of the Governor who, in full uniform to suit the occasion, gives us a farewell salute from the height of his balcony. The bugles and drums of the local section of the Colonial Infantry sound and beat the military honours. We raise our hats. The moment is somewhat solemn, and (you may laugh) I confess that my eyes are moist.
Why must so solemn an occasion be interrupted by a piece of nonsense?
St. Berain? Where's St. Berain? St. Berain has been forgotten! We look for him, we call him. The echoes repeat his name. It's all in vain. St. Berain does not reply.
We begin to fear some mishap. But Mlle Momas, who does not seem uneasy, reassures us.
No, Mlle Mornas is not uneasy. My word, she is furious!
"I'll fetch St. Berain in three minutes," she says between her clenched teeth. She claps spurs to her horse.
First, however, she's found time to turn towards me and say, "Monsieur Florence . . ." with a little pleading expression which I understand quite well. That's why I also use my spurs and ride off after her.
A few strides take us to the shore, facing the open sea-no doubt you know that Konakry is on an island, and there, what do I see?
M. de St. Berain. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, St. Berain as large as life, like you or me.
What's he doing there? We pause for a moment to find out.
M. de St. Berain is comfortably seated on the sand, and doesn't seem to have any idea that he's holding up an official Mission. He is amiably chatting with a Negro who is showing him some fish hooks, probably of a type unknown in Europe, and is explaining them at great length. Then they both get up and walk toward a canoe half drawn up on the shore in which the Negro embarks.... Heaven forgive me! M. de St. Berain, doesn't he look like getting into it himself?
He doesn't get the chance.
"Nephew!" Mlle Momas suddenly calls in severe tones.
(Certainly he is her nephew).
That word is enough. M. de St. Berain turns round and sees his aunt, for his aunt she must be. Apparently the sight refreshes his memory, for he gives an exclamation of despair, lifts his arms heavenwards, throws his black friend a handful of money, grabs in return a batch of fish-hooks, thrusts them pell mell into his pocket, and runs headlong towards us.
He's so funny that we roar with laughter. This enables Mlle Mornas to disclose a double row of dazzling white teeth. Dazzling, I repeat!
We turn about and M. de St. Berain trots alongside our horses. But Mlle Mornas takes pity on the poor man; slowing her pace to a walk, she says gently: "Don't run like that, Uncle. You'll get overheated."
(He's her uncle, then? ... Oh! my head!)
We regain the convoy, where we are welcomed with ironical smiles. M. de St. Berain doesn't worry about such trifles. He merely seems surprised to find so many people about.
"Am I late, then?" he asks innocently.
At this the whole column begins to laugh, and M. de St. Berain joins in. I can't help liking the fellow. But we haven't got away yet.
Just as M. de St. Berain bends down, like the good horseman he is, to see that his saddle-girths are properly adjusted, the case for his fishing lines, which he is wearing like a bandolier, unluckily bumps against the flanks of one of the donkeys. The animal is skittish. It lets fly a kick at the unfortunate St. Berain, who rolls in the dust.
We all rush to his help. But the good fellow is already up.
"That's very good! Mossoo have much luck," Tongane tells him. "If bee sting or horse give kick, good journey, very fine."
Without answering him, M. de St. Berain, dispirited and covered with dust, jumps into the saddle, and at last the convoy can be off.
By this time the sun has risen, and its first gleams are cheerfully lighting our route.
The path we are to follow, after crossing the bridge joining Konakry to the mainland, is fairly good. It is quite a road, five or six yards wide, along which a vehicle can easily pass, that we are to follow as far as Timbo, about 250 miles. Thus, until we reach Timbo at any rate, we need expect no serious difficulty.
For the rest, the weather is good, the temperature is agreeable, barely 50° in the shade, and we need not fear those terrible tropical downpours, for the rainy season is over.
Come on! All is for the best in the best of possible worlds.
About ten we cross a bridge over a stream of water which M. Tassin says is an affluent of the Manea, or else of the Morebayah, unless it's one or other of them. At present we are still in a cruel state of incertitude about this.
Anyhow, crossing rivers is the small change of travel in this part of Africa. There isn't a day, so to speak, on which one doesn't have to cross at least one of them. Understand then, as my articles aren't a course in geography, that I shall not talk about this exercise, unless it should be out of the ordinary in some way.
Near Konakry the route follows almost a straight line across a countryside but little diversified by hills. It is bordered by fields, fairly well cultivated. Maize or millet, with a few clumps of trees: cotton trees, bananas, and so forth. We come across a few scattered insignificant hamlets, to which M. Tassin gives names which I think he must have made up himself. So far as we can tell, however, they might just as well be authentic.
Towards ten it gets hot, and Captain Marcenay orders a halt. We have come about twelve miles from Konakry, which is quite satisfactory. We are going to have lunch and rest; then, after another meal, we shall set off about five in the afternoon, and make camp for the night about nine this evening.
This is to be our programme every day, so I shall not mention it again. Naturally I do not mean to weary my readers with trifling details of our journey. I take a lofty view of things, and I'll jot them down in my notebook only when they are remarkable in some way or other.
That explained, let's get on.
The halting place has been admirably chosen by Captain Marcenay. We have settled down in the shade of a little wood which will shelter us fairly well against the heat of the sun. While the soldiers scatter we (I mean the members of the Mission, Mlle Mornas, the Captain, M. de St. Berain and your humble servant) we, I say, take our places in a pleasant clearing.
I offer a cushion to our fair companion, but Captain Marcenay and M. Barsac have forestalled me, and have each brought a camp stool. What embarrassment! Mlle Mornas does not know which to choose. Already the captain and the leader of the Mission are looking somewhat askance at one another. Mlle Mornas brings them into accord by sitting on the ground, on my cushion. The two aspirants cast angry glances at me.
M. Baudrieres sits to one side on a little clump of grass, in the midst of a group formed of those whom I call the "neutrals." They are the more or less competent delegates of the various ministries, Mm. Heyrieux, Quir-ieu, and Poncin.
The last named, the most remarkable of the three, has not ceased to make notes since we started. I do not know, indeed, what they are. If he were less "official" I would hint that he marvellously suggests the character of M. Prudhomme. What a brow! With such a forehead, one must be either wondrously intelligent or outstandingly dull. Nothing in between. In which category must I place M. Poncin? I don't know.
Dr. Chatonnay and M. Tassin, so inseparable that they remind us of a couple of lovebirds, take up a position under a fig tree. They are spreading geographical maps on the ground. I hope that they are not going to make them their only food.
Morilire who is certainly making himself useful, has brought us a table and a form. I sit down while reserving a place for M. de St. Berain.
But M. de St. Berain isn't there! What's more, M. de St. Berain is never there!
Morilire gets a camp kitchen ready. Assisted by Tcho-umouki and Tongane, he is going to do the cooking, for we have decided not to use more than we
can help of the provisions we've brought from Europe. These are to be reserved on the chance (which should be unlikely) that we shan't be able to get enough fresh food by living on the country.
He bought some meat at Konakry. He shows it to us:
"Me make it fine stew with sade (lamb)," he tells us, "tender as a baby."
Tender as a baby! That comparison makes our flesh creep. Has Morilire ever tasted human flesh, we wonder? We ask him. He tells us, in rather hypocritical tones, that he's never eaten it himself, but he's heard its exquisite savour praised highly. H'm!
Our first meal doesn't recall the Cafe Anglais, but all the same it's excellent. Judge for yourself: quarters of lamb grilled with millet paste and sauce made of Karite butter, a salad, a maize cake, figs, bananas, and coconut. Washed down by the pure water of a stream which flows at our feet, and, for those who like it, palm tree wine.
These dishes are preceded by an hors-d'oeuvre which our maitre d'hotel had not foreseen. But let us not anticipate, as they say in well constructed novelettes.
While Morilire and his two assistants are preparing the meal, Dr. Chatonnay comes up and gives us some highly technical information regarding such local foodstuffs as Karite butter also called Co butter, for the tree from which it comes has two names. He explains how it is prepared.
"You know everything, Doctor," Mlle Mornas says admiringly.
"No, Mademoiselle, but I've read widely, especially the admirable works of Captain Binger."
This worthy doctor is still at it with his scientific explanations when my attention is drawn by cries corning from the wood. We at once recognize the voice which utters them.
I should bet that, if I ask my readers the simple question: "Whom does that voice belong to?" they would at once reply in chorus "I know! M. de St. Berain!"
You readers are not mistaken. It is, indeed, M. de St. Berain who is shouting for help.
