In the Heart of Africa | Page 7

me able to converse fairly well.
The wind at this season (June) was changeable, and strong blasts from
the south were the harbingers of the approaching rainy season. We had
no time to lose, and we accordingly arranged to start. I discharged my
dirty cook, and engaged a man who was brought by a coffeehouse
keeper, by whom he was highly recommended; but, as a precaution
against deception, I led him before the Mudir, or Governor, to be
registered before our departure. To my astonishment, and to his infinite

disgust, he was immediately recognized as an old offender, who had
formerly been imprisoned for theft! The Governor, to prove his
friendship and his interest in my welfare, immediately sent the police to
capture the coffee-house keeper who had recommended the cook. No
sooner was the unlucky surety brought to the Divan than he was
condemned to receive two hundred lashes for having given a false
character. The sentence was literally carried out, in spite of my
remonstrance, and the police were ordered to make the case public to
prevent a recurrence. The Governor assured me that, as I held a firman
from the Viceroy, he could not do otherwise, and that I must believe
him to be my truest friend. "Save me from my friends," was an adage
quickly proved. I could not procure a cook nor any other attendant, as
every one was afraid to guarantee a character, lest he might come in for
his share of the two hundred lashes!
The Governor came to my rescue, and sent immediately the promised
Turkish soldiers, who were to act in the double capacity of escort and
servants. They were men of totally opposite characters. Hadji Achmet
was a hardy, powerful, dare-devil-looking Turk, while Hadji Velli was
the perfection of politeness, and as gentle as a lamb. My new allies
procured me three donkeys in addition to the necessary baggage camels,
and we started from Berber on the evening of the 10th of June for the
junction of the Atbara River With the Nile.
Mahomet, Achmet, and Ali are equivalent to Smith, Brown, and
Thompson. Accordingly, of my few attendants, my dragoman was
Mahomet, and my principal guide was Achmet, and subsequently I had
a number of Alis. Mahomet was a regular Cairo dragoman, a native of
Dongola, almost black, but exceedingly tenacious regarding his shade
of color, which he declared to be light brown. He spoke very bad
English, was excessively conceited, and irascible to a degree. He was
one of those dragomans who are accustomed to the civilized
expeditions of the British tourist to the first or second cataract, in a Nile
boat replete with conveniences and luxuries, upon which the dragoman
is monarch supreme, a whale among the minnows, who rules the vessel,
purchases daily a host of unnecessary supplies, upon which he clears
his profit, until he returns to Cairo with his pockets filled sufficiently to

support him until the following Nile season. The short three months'
harvest, from November until February, fills his granary for the year.
Under such circumstances the temper should be angelic.
But times had changed. To Mahomet the very idea of exploration was
an absurdity. He had never believed in it front the first, and he now
became impressed with the fact that he was positively committed to an
undertaking that would end most likely in his death, if not in terrible
difficulties; he determined, under the circumstances, to make himself as
disagreeable as possible to all parties. With this amiable resolution he
adopted a physical infirmity in the shape of deafness. In reality, no one
was more acute in hearing, but as there are no bells where there are no
houses, he of course could not answer such a summons, and he was
compelled to attend to the call of his own name--"Mahomet!
Mahomet!" No reply, although the individual were sitting within a few
feet, apparently absorbed in the contemplation of his own boots.
"MaHOMet!" with an additional emphasis upon the second syllable.
Again no response. "Mahomet, you rascal, why don't you answer?"
This energetic address would effect a change in his position. The mild
and lamb-like dragoman of Cairo would suddenly start from the ground,
tear his own hair from his head in handfuls, and shout, "Mahomet!
Mahomet! Mahomet! always Mahomet! D--n Mahomet! I wish he were
dead, or back in Cairo, this brute Mahomet!" The irascible dragoman
would then beat his own head unmercifully with his fists, in a
paroxysm of rage.
To comfort him I could only exclaim, "Well done, Mahomet! thrash
him; pommel him well; punch his head; you know him best; he
deserves it; don't spare him!" This advice, acting upon the natural
perversity of his disposition, generally soothed him, and he ceased
punching his head. This man