Into the Niger Bend: Barsac Mission, Part 1

by Jules Verne

  Let's get on! There I am, running on in my usual style. In representing our escort as bandits when no doubt they're quite ordinary Tirailleurs, isn't my imagination playing me a nasty trick? And the letter, the authentic letter from Colonel Saint Auban, what am I to make of that?

  Whatever I wish, that letter is a difficulty, I agree, but nothing can prevail against my impression of our new escort and its commander.

  First of all, that officer, those N.C.O.'s, those soldiers, are they military? Regarding the Africans, nobody can tell. For the officer, one is inclined to say "yes." On the other hand, one would reply no without hesitation regarding the two sergeants. Tirailleurs, with heads like that? Tell that to someone else! No need to be a phrenologist, or a physiognomist, nor any other scholarly ist, to read in those faces the uneasiness of the trapped beast, the love of gross pleasures, uncontrolled violence and cruelty. A charming portrait!

  What first struck me is only a detail, but it opened the tap of my cogitations. Isn't it indeed strange that these men, the N.C.O.'s included, should be covered with dust like people who've been chasing us for a fortnight, while their leader is as fresh as if he'd come out of a band box?

  For he is fresh, and to a most improbable degree. Clean linen, shining boots, waxed moustache, he's quite a pretty boy. And his deportment? Anyone would think that Lieutenant Lacour were going to hold a review.

  He is regimental from head to toe. Nothing is amiss, not a button, not a thread, down to his trousers, with a crease as if they were brand new. You don't often get the chance, in the bush, of admiring such elegance. That uniform announced to all comers that it has never before been worn, that it's quite new, and that the man who wears it is so anxious to look like an officer that he's gone beyond the limits of probability.

  With so much spit and polish when his subordinates are so dusty? Hasn't Lieutenant Lacour done as much chasing about as they have?

  The two sergeants, on the other hand, are very dirty; but if they haven't got the exaggerated elegance of their officer, they sin, to my mind, by too much of the opposite. Their uniforms look like hand-me-downs. They are in rags. The trousers are much too large and too much patched, and no number, no symbol, indicates the regiment.

  I can hardly believe that French soldiers would be allowed to get into such a state. Something else more difficult to express: I feel as if the men who wear these old uniforms are not used to wearing them. Although I can't quite explain why, they haven't the air of being at home in them.

  Such are my observations. They may seem inadequate, and I may be very wrong in letting myself be swayed by such trifling details, which may have the simplest explanation in the world. I won't say no, for I'm not far from that opinion myself. In seeking to define, to set down in writing, the reasons for my distrust, I'm the first to admit their weakness. But this distrust is first and foremost a matter of instinct, and I can't put it into words.

  As regards disicipline, there's nothing to say. Indeed, to my mind it's rather too strict. The sentries on watch relieve one another regularly. The general routine is perfect, perhaps too perfect.

  The escort is divided sharply into three groups, none of whom are on good terms with the convoy. The first consists of the twenty Soudanese Tirailleurs. Outside their hours of guard duty, they hang together and, an incredible thing among Africans, they scarcely ever speak. They prepare their meals in silence, or they sleep. We never hear anything from them. They obey the merest glance of their N.C.O.'s, whom they seem to fear greatly. It looks, indeed, as if these twenty Negroes are thoroughly unhappy and thoroughly scared.

  The second group comprises the N.C.O.'s. These do speak, but only to one another, and always under their breath. Even my reporter's ear has not been able, so far, to catch a single word of importance.

  The third and last group consists of Lieutenant Lacour all by himself. He is a man of small stature, who does not impress me as a very attractive gentleman. He has pale blue eyes, steely eyes as they say, which do not exactly express a universal benevolence. Not talkative, and unsociable into the bargain. Throughout the afternoon, I have only seen him come out of his tent twice, and then simply to inspect his men.

  This operation does not vary. As soon as they see their chief, the Tirailleurs jump to their feet and line up. The lieutenant, stiff as a ramrod, inspects them, while his frozen glance runs over them from head to feet; then he disappears into his quarters, without saying a word to anyone. Even at the most favorable, I dare say that this elegant officer will not be, to say the least, a cheerful companion.

  Throughout the day, I have not seen Mlle Mornas.

  Nor Tchoumouki either, which means that I still have my article in my pocket.

  15th February. At reveille this morning, I observe no preparations for our departure. I ask Tongane who tells me that we are not going to budge all day. After yesterday's rest, this halt seems strange.

  By chance I run into Lieutenant Lacour, always erect and still faultlessly elegant. I stop him and ask him the reason for this supplementary halt.

  "M. Barsac's orders," he replies laconically.

  Three words, after which he gives a military salute and turns on his heels. Lieutenant Lacour is not what one calls a conversationalist.

  Why is the Chief of the Mission marking time like this? Does he mean to give up his journey now the escort is cut down by four-fifths? This intrigues me. It disquiets me too, because that decision would bring to an end a reportage which seems on the point of becoming sensational.

  Exactly at ten I see M. Barsac. He steps out, his hands behind his back and his eyes turned towards the earth, and he doesn't seem in a good humour. This moment is perhaps not well chosen for asking him about his plans. However, I risk the interview.

  M. Barsac does not get annoyed. He stops, and looks at me for a time in silence. At last he says: "It's only a few days, Monsieur Florence, since you asked me the same question. I did not answer. I will answer today that I do not know myself."

  "Then you haven't come to any decision, Monsieur le Depute."

  "None; I ponder, I fumble, I weigh the pros and the cons. ...

  Again silence, then suddenly: "But in fact," M. Barsac exclaims, "why shouldn't we go into the question together? You are a practical fellow, full of good sense." (Thank you, Monsieur Barsac) "I should like your opinion."

  I bow: "At your service, Monsieur le Depute."

  "Let us first consider whether the journey can be continued without imprudence."

  I suggest: "It might first be better to ask whether it's any use."

  "Not at all," replies M. Barsac. "Its value is certain." I am taken aback. However, M. Barsac continues:

  "Then is the journey feasible? That is the problem. Until yesterday the question did not arise, for so far no really serious incident has marked our path. Isn't that your view?"

  "Quite."

  "The first incident of any real importance is this unforeseen alteration in our escort, its being cut down to twenty men. Can twenty men assure our safety in the midst of this Negro population? That's what I want to know."

  "Put in those terms," I say, "the question only admits of affirmative reply. I feel sure that twenty men will be quite enough, if the only enemies we meet are to be Negroes. Other explorers have made longer journeys than ours with a smaller escort, or with no escort at all. But____"

  "I know what you're going to say," M. Barsac breaks in. "You're going to mention this mysterious unknown person who doesn't seem to want to have us in his country. I haven't concealed my views regarding this, and the others have agreed. Nothing fresh has happened since. So to my mind it's useless to go over it again."

  I reply. "Forgive me, Monsieur le Depute, but on the other hand, I think there is something new."

  "Bah!" M. Barsac is surprised. "Something new that's been kept from me? Explain yourself!"

  Thus cornered, I can't help feeling embarrassed. My notes, which seemed so important, and their results, which I thought so logical se
em, now that I have to put them into words, more insignificant and arbitrary than when I jotted them down. But, as I've foolishly started the hare—as was my duty, anyway—I've got to chase it.

  I do chase it. I disclose to M. Barsac my observations on our escort and the officer who commands it, and I end by timidly putting forward the hypothesis that if these gentry aren't real soldiers they may well be in the pay of that unknown adversaiy whom so far we haven't taken seriously.

  When he hears these enormities, M. Barsac starts laughing.

  "What a romance!" he exclaims. "Monsieur Florence, I think you've got a wonderful imagination. You will find this very useful if ever you go in for the theatre, but I advise you to steer clear of it in real life."

  "However. .. ." I say, annoyed.

  "It isn't a matter of 'however'. Look at the facts. First of all, that order in writing...."

  "It might be false."

  "No," replies M. Barsac, "for Captain Marcenay regarded it as authentic and obeyed it without hesitation."

  "It might have been stolen...."

  "Another romancel How, I ask you, could a substitute be found for the real escort? They would have to hold in readiness a troop strong enough first to wipe out the escort to the last man—to the last man, you understand —and then to substitute a spurious detachement absolutely identical with them. And all this a long way in advance, when nobody could possibly know what the new escort would be, or even whether Colonel Saint Auban would send it off.

  "As none of Lieutenant Lacour's men has been wounded, that troop would have to be very strong, for you will concede, I suppose, that the original escort would not have let themselves be massacred without putting up a fight? And you have it that so strong a band would not be noticed, that the rumour of such a fight would not have reached us although in the bush news flies from village to village as fast as a telegram? See what impossibilities you're up against when you let your imagination run riot!"

  M. Barsac is right. The orders can't have been stolen. He goes on:

  "As for your impression of the men and their leaders, what do you base that on? How are these Tirailleurs, whom you see in front of you, different from any other black Tirailleurs?"

  I look at them, and I'm forced to recognize that he is right again. Where were my wits yesterday evening? I've been a victim of auto-suggestion. These Negroes are just like any other Negroes.

  M. Barsac realizes his advantage. He continues with even more assurance (and God knows whether its assurance he lacks!)

  "Let's get on to the N.C.O.'s. What do you find so special about them? They're very dirty, it's true, but no worse than some of Captain Marcenay's sergeants. On active service you really can't be so punctilious about the state of their uniforms."

  He's got a golden eloquence. I put in a word timidly, for I'm really shaken: "But Lieutenant Lacour. . . ."

  "Oh, that's a queer complaint," exclaims M. Barsac, smiling. "He's clearly meticulous about his person and toilet. That's not a crime."

  No, it isn't. I make a last effort and suggest: "All the same, a uniform shrieking that it's new, that's queer!"

  "Because his other uniform is in his kitbag," M. Barsac explains; he has an answer for everything. "It must be covered with dust and Monsieur Lacour wanted to look his best before displaying himself to us."

  M. Barsac seems to find that very natural. Perhaps, after all, it is I who do not quite realize the importance of the Chief of the Mission.

  "Besides, I've had a long talk with Lieutenant Lacour, yesterday afternoon. He's a delightful man, although he likes to overdo his elegance, I quite agree. Polite, well educated, deferential, even respectful."

  At this point M. Barsac throws out his chest.

  "Even respectful. I think he's a very pleasant companion and a willing subordinate."

  I ask: "Doesn't the lieutenant see any difficulty in continuing our journey under these conditions?"

  "None at all."

  "And yet you're doubtful, Monsieur le Depute1."

  "I shall hesitate no longer," declares M. Barsac, who has convinced himself while he was talking. "We shall start tomorrow."

  "Without even wondering whether it's useful now that we've settled it's possible?"

  The gentle irony of my question goes unnoticed.

  "What for?" asks M. Barsac. "This journey is not only useful, it is essential."

  "Essential?"

  Restored to his good humour, M. Barsac takes me familiarly by the arm and explains in confidential tones:

  "Between ourselves, my dear fellow, I'm willing to agree that the Africans whom we've recently met are far from being advanced enough to become voters. I will agree, too, if you insist, that we have no chance of being more fortunate so long as we turn our backs on the coast. But though I'm telling this to you, I shouldn't say so at the tribune of the Chamber.

  "Now, if we complete our journey, things will go as follows: Baudrieres and I will put in reports whose conclusions are diametrically opposed, and these reports will be considered by a Commission. Then either we shall make mutual concessions, and the vote will be given to some of the natives on the coast, which will be a victory for me, or else we shan't make any concessions, and the matter will be dropped. A week later, nobody will be thinking about it any more, and nobody will ever know whether the facts showed me right or wrong. Either way, nothing will keep either Baudrieres or myself, whichever way the wind blows, from one day having the portfolio of the Colonies. But if I should return without accomplishing my Mission, that would be to announce publicly that I'd lost my way: my enemies would shout at the top of their voices that I was nothing but an old fool, and I should be sunk once and for all."

  M. Barsac makes a slight pause, then concludes with this profound thought: "Never forget this truth, M. Florence: anyone in politics can make a mistake. That doesn't matter. But if he admits his error, he's lost."

  I savour this maxim, and I go away satisfied. I am quite satisfied, indeed, for at last I understand the motives of us all.

  After leaving M. Barsac I happen to come across M. Poncin's notebook, which he has chanced to leave on a folding chair. My journalistic instincts triumph over my good manners, and I deliberately open it. I've been wondering about this for a long time, what our silent companion keeps writing from morning to night.

  Alas! I'm well punished for my curiosity. It's nothing but a tangle of incomprehensible figures and letters mixed up at random: "p.j. 0.009," "p.k.c. 135.08," "M. 76.18" and so forth.

  Another mystery! Why this secret writing? Has M. Poncin something to hide? Is he betraying us, too?"

  There we are, on my hobby-horse again. I must look out for that. What an idea, to suspect this good fellow! That's paying him too much honour, because, I can say it to this notebook simply for my own benefit, he hasn't enough sense, our M. Poncin.

  But either you are a journalist or you're not. I copy a few random examples of these hieroglyphics.

  I put the notebook back and go off with my booty. Perhaps that will be enough. One never knows.

  During the afternoon, a ride. I go out along with Tongane, who has taken Tchoumouki's horse, which is better than his own. We go off into the country at a gentle trot. After five minutes, Tongane whose tongue is itching, suddenly says: "It be good Tchoumouki get out. Tchoumouki dirty black rascal. Him traitor."

  Well here's another of them! What! Tchoumouki betraying us, too? I know that this is the time to verify things. I pretend to be surprised.

  "That's Morilire that you're talking about."

  "Morilire, him no good," Tongane says with energy.

  "But Tchoumouki same thing Morilire. Negroes say 'Him no good walk!' give much dolo toubab (brandy), much money, much gold."

  Gold in the hands of Morilire and Tchoumouki? That isn't likely!

  "You mean that they give the Negroes cowries, to get them round?"

  "Not cowries," Tongane insists. "Much gold."

  And he adds a detail which bowls me over: "M
uch gold English."

  "You know English gold then, Tongane?"

  "loo," the Negro tells me. "Me Ashanti. Me know pounshterlings."

  I realize that by this singular word Tongane means "pounds sterling." It's a queer word. I have tried to transcribe it in phoenetic writing but in Tongane s mouth it sounds better. But now I don't feel like laughing. Gold!-and English gold!-in the hands of Tchoumouki and Morilire l . . . I'm bowled over. However, I don't let this appear, and pretend not to attach any importance to the news.

  "You are a good fellow, Tongane. I tell my companion and as you know pounshterlings so well, take this little gold piece with the picture of the French Republic."

  "Him good Republic!" cries Tongane. Overcome with delight, he throws the piece I offer him into the air, catches it in its flight and thrusts it into one of the saddle-bags.

  At once a look of astonishment crosses his face, and he pulls from the opening a thick roll of paper, an object hardly likely to be found among the Negroes. I give a cry and snatch out of his hand a script which I recognize at once.

  My articles! They're my articles! My wonderful articles waiting in the saddle bags of that rascal Tchoumouki! Alas! All of them are there, beginning with the fourth. How harshly they'll judge me at L'Expansion Francaise! I shall be dishonoured, and lose my reputation for ever!

  While I ponder these sad thoughts, we keep travelling on at a gentle trot. We must be a little over three miles from the camp when I stop suddenly. I have just come across something very strange.

  It is almost on the edge of the road, a space six or seven yards wide and almost fifty yards long, marked out in the midst of the bush. Over the space the tall grass is lying flat, crushed, part of it even cut short as if by a gigantic scythe. Moreover, and this especially attracts my attention, in the ground thus laid bare we can clearly see two parallel grooves, like those which we noticed near Kankan, about four inches deep at one end and petering out at the other. This time the deep end is towards the east.