It was towards noon on
March 1, 1898, that I first found myself entering the narrow and
somewhat dangerous harbour of Mombasa, on the east coast of Africa.
The town lies on an island of the same name, separated from the
mainland only by a very narrow channel, which forms the harbour;
and as our vessel steamed slowly in, close under the quaint old
Portuguese fortress built over three hundred years ago, I was much
struck with the strange beauty of the view which gradually opened
out before me. Contrary to my anticipation, everything looked fresh
and green, and an oriental glamour of enchantment seemed to hang
over the island. The old town was bathed in brilliant sunshine and
reflected itself lazily on the motionless sea; its flat roofs and
dazzlingly white walls peeped out dreamily between waving palms and
lofty cocoanuts, huge baobabs and spreading mango trees; and the
darker background of well-wooded hills and slopes on the mainland
formed a very effective setting to a beautiful and, to me,
unexpected picture.
The harbour was plentifully
sprinkled with Arab dhows, in some of which, I believe, even at the
present day, a few slaves are occasionally smuggled off to Persia
and Arabia. It has always been a matter of great wonder to me how
the navigators of little vessels find their way from port to port,
as they do, without the aid of either compass or sextant, and how
they manage to weather the terrible storms that at certain seasons
of the year suddenly visit eastern seas. I remember once coming
across a dhow becalmed in the middle of the Indian Ocean, and its
crew making signals of distress, our captain slowed down to
investigate. There were four men on board, all nearly dead from
thirst; they had been without drink of any kind for several days
and had completely lost their bearings. After giving them some
casks of water, we directed them to Muscat (the port they wished to
make), and our vessel resumed its journey, leaving them still
becalmed in the midst of that glassy sea. Whether they managed to
reach their destination I never knew.
As our steamer made its way to
its anchorage, the romantic surroundings of the harbour of Mombasa
conjured up, visions of stirring adventures of the past, and
recalled to my mind the many tales of reckless doings of pirates
and slavers, which as a boy it had been my delight to read. I
remembered that it was at this very place that in 1498 the great
Vasco da Gama nearly lost his ship and life through the treachery
of his Arab pilot, who plotted to wreck the vessel on the reef
which bars more than half the entrance to the harbour. Luckily,
this nefarious design was discovered in time, and the bold
navigator promptly hanged the pilot, and would also have sacked the
town but for the timely submission and apologies of the Sultan. In
the principal street of Mombasa—appropriately called Vasco da Gama
Street—there still stands a curiously shaped pillar which is said
to have been erected by this great seaman in commemoration of his
visit.
Scarcely had the anchor been
dropped, when, as if by magic, our vessel was surrounded by a fleet
of small boats and "dug-outs" manned by crowds of shouting and
gesticulating natives. After a short fight between some rival
Swahili boatmen for my baggage and person, I found myself being
vigorously rowed to the foot of the landing steps by the bahareen
(sailors) who had been successful in the encounter. Now, my object
in coming out to East Africa at this time was to take up a position
to which I had been appointed by the Foreign Office on the
construction staff of the Uganda Railway. As soon as I landed,
therefore, I enquired from one of the Customs officials where the
headquarters of the railway were to be found, and was told that
they were at a place called Kilindini, some three miles away, on
the other side of the island. The best way to get there, I was
further informed, was by gharri, which I found to be a small
trolley, having two seats placed back to back under a little canopy
and running on narrow rails which are laid through the principal
street of the town. Accordingly, I secured one of these vehicles,
which are pushed by two strapping Swahili boys, and was soon flying
down the track, which once outside the town lay for the most part
through dense groves of mango, baobab, banana and palm trees, with
here and there brilliantly coloured creepers hanging in luxuriant
festoons from the branches.
On arrival at Kilindini, I made
my way to the railway Offices and was informed that I should be
stationed inland and should receive further instructions in the
course of a day or two. Meanwhile I pitched my tent under some
shady palms near the gharri line, and busied myself in exploring
the island and in procuring the stores and the outfit necessary for
a lengthy sojourn up-country. The town of Mombasa itself naturally
occupied most of my attention. It is supposed to have been founded
about A.D. 1000, but the discovery of ancient Egyptian idols, and
of coins of the early Persian and Chinese dynasties, goes to show
that it must at different ages have been settled by people of the
very earliest civilisations. Coming to more modern times, it was
held on and off from 1505 to 1729 by the Portuguese, a permanent
memorial of whose occupation remains in the shape of the grim old
fortress, built about 1593—on the site, it is believed, of a still
older stronghold. These enterprising sea-rovers piously named it
"Jesus Fort," and an inscription recording this is still to be seen
over the main entrance. The Portuguese occupation of Mombasa was,
however, not without its vicissitudes. From March 15, 1696, for
example, the town was besieged for thirty-three consecutive months
by a large fleet of Arab dhows, which completely surrounded the
island. In spite of plague, treachery and famine, the little
garrison held out valiantly in Jesus Fort, to which they had been
forced to retire, until December 12, 1698, when the Arabs made a
last determined attack and captured the citadel, putting the
remnant of the defenders, both men and women, to the sword. It is
pathetic to read that only two days later a large Portuguese fleet
appeared off the harbour, bringing the long-looked-for
reinforcements. After this the Portuguese made several attempts to
reconquer Mombasa, but were unsuccessful until 1728, when the town
was stormed and captured by General Sampayo. The Arabs, however,
returned the next year in overwhelming numbers, and again drove the
Portuguese out; and although the latter made one more attempt in
1769 to regain their supremacy, they did not succeed.
The Arabs, as represented by the
Sultan of Zanzibar, remain in nominal possession of Mombasa to the
present day; but in 1887 Seyid Bargash, the then Sultan of
Zanzibar, gave for an annual rental a concession of his mainland
territories to the British East Africa Association, which in 1888
was formed into the Imperial British East Africa Company. In 1895
the Foreign Office took over control of the Company's possessions,
and a Protectorate was proclaimed; and ten years later the
administration of the country was transferred to the Colonial
Office.
The last serious fighting on the
island took place so recently as 1895-6, when a Swahili chief named
M'baruk bin Rashed, who had three times previously risen in
rebellion against the Sultan of Zanzibar, attempted to defy the
British and to throw off their yoke. He was defeated on several
occasions, however, and was finally forced to flee southwards into
German territory. Altogether, Mombasa has in the past well deserved
its native name of Kisiwa M'vitaa, or "Isle of War"; but under the
settled rule now obtaining, it is rapidly becoming a thriving and
prosperous town, and as the port of entry for Uganda, it does a
large forwarding trade with the interior and has several excellent
stores where almost anything, from a needle to an anchor, may
readily be obtained.
Kilindini is, as I have said, on
the opposite side of the island, and as its name—"the place of deep
waters"—implies, has a much finer harbour than that possessed by
Mombasa. The channel between the island and the mainland is here
capable of giving commodious and safe anchorage to the very largest
vessels, and as the jetty is directly connected with the Uganda
Railway, Kilindini has now really become the principal port, being
always used by the liners and heavier vessels.
I had spent nearly a week in
Mombasa, and was becoming very anxious to get my marching orders,
when one morning I was delighted to receive an official letter
instructing me to proceed to Tsavo, about one hundred and
thirty-two miles from the coast, and to take charge of the
construction of the section of the line at that place, which had
just then been reached by railhead. I accordingly started at
daylight next morning in a special train with Mr. Anderson, the
Superintendent of Works, and Dr. McCulloch, the principal Medical
Officer; and as the country was in every way new to me, I found the
journey a most interesting one.
The island of Mombasa is
separated from the mainland by the Strait of Macupa, and the
railway crosses this by a bridge about three-quarters of a mile
long, called the Salisbury Bridge, in honour of the great Minister
for Foreign Affairs under whose direction the Uganda Railway scheme
was undertaken. For twenty miles after reaching the mainland, our
train wound steadily upwards through beautifully wooded, park-like
country, and on looking back out of the carriage windows we could
every now and again obtain lovely views of Mombasa and Kilindini,
while beyond these the Indian Ocean sparkled in the glorious
sunshine as far as the eye could see. The summit of the Rabai Hills
having been reached, we entered on the expanse of the Taru Desert,
a wilderness covered with poor scrub and stunted trees, and
carpeted in the dry season with a layer of fine red dust. This dust
is of a most penetrating character, and finds its way into
everything in the carriage as the train passes along. From here
onward game is more or less plentiful, but the animals are very
difficult to see owing to the thick undergrowth in which they hide
themselves. We managed, however, to catch sight of a few from the
carriage windows, and also noticed some of the natives, the Wa
Nyika, or "children of the wilderness."
At Maungu, some eighty miles from
the coast, we came to the end of this "desert," but almost the only
difference to be noticed in the character of the country was that
the colour of the dust had changed. As our train sped onwards
through the level uplands we saw a fine ostrich striding along
parallel with the line, as if having a race with us. Dr. McCulloch
at once seized his rifle and by a lucky shot brought down the huge
bird; the next and greater difficulty, however, was to secure the
prize. For a time the engine-driver took no notice of our signals
and shouts, but at last we succeeded in attracting his attention,
and the train was shunted back to where the ostrich had fallen. We
found it to be an exceptionally fine specimen, and had to exert all
our strength to drag it on board the train.
Soon after this we reached Voi,
about a hundred miles from the coast, and as this was the most
important station on the line that we had yet come to, we made a
short halt in order to inspect some construction work which was
going on. On resuming our journey, we soon discovered that a
pleasant change had occurred in the character of the landscape.
From a place called N'dii, the railway runs for some miles through
a beautifully wooded country, which looked all the more inviting
after the deadly monotony of the wilderness through which we had
just passed. To the south of us could be seen the N'dii range of
mountains, the dwelling-place of the Wa Taita people, while on our
right rose the rigid brow of the N'dungu Escarpment, which
stretches away westwards for scores of miles. Here our journey was
slow, as every now and again we stopped to inspect the permanent
works in progress; but eventually, towards dusk, we arrived at our
destination, Tsavo. I slept that night in a little palm hut which
had been built by some previous traveller, and which was
fortunately unoccupied for the time being. It was rather
broken-down and dilapidated, not even possessing a door, and as I
lay on my narrow camp bed I could see the stars twinkling through
the roof. I little knew then what adventures awaited me in this
neighbourhood; and if I had realised that at that very time two
savage brutes were prowling round, seeking whom they might devour,
I hardly think I should have slept so peacefully in my rickety
shelter.
Next morning I was up betimes,
eager to make acquaintance with my new surroundings. My first
impression on coming out of my hut was that I was hemmed in on all
sides by a dense growth of impenetrable jungle: and on scrambling
to the top of a little hill close at hand, I found that the whole
country as far as I could see was covered with low, stunted trees,
thick undergrowth and "wait-a-bit" thorns. The only clearing,
indeed, appeared to be where the narrow track for the railway had
been cut. This interminable nyika, or wilderness of whitish and
leafless dwarf trees, presented a ghastly and sun-stricken
appearance; and here and there a ridge of dark-red heat-blistered
rock jutted out above the jungle, and added by its rugged
barrenness to the dreariness of the picture. Away to the north-east
stretched the unbroken line of the N'dungu Escarpment, while far
off to the south I could just catch a glimpse of the snow-capped
top of towering Kilima N'jaro. The one redeeming feature of the
neighbourhood was the river from which Tsavo takes its name. This
is a swiftly-flowing stream, always cool and always running, the
latter being an exceptional attribute in this part of East Africa;
and the fringe of lofty green trees along its banks formed a
welcome relief to the general monotony of the landscape.
When I had thus obtained a rough
idea of the neighbourhood, I returned to my hut, and began in
earnest to make preparations for my stay in this out-of-the-way
place. The stores were unpacked, and my "boys" pitched my tent in a
little clearing close to where I had slept the night before and not
far from the main camp of the workmen. Railhead had at this time
just reached the western side of the river, and some thousands of
Indian coolies and other workmen were encamped there. As the line
had to be pushed on with all speed, a diversion had been made and
the river crossed by means of a temporary bridge. My principal work
was to erect the permanent structure, and to complete all the other
works for a distance of thirty miles on each side of Tsavo. I
accordingly made a survey of what had to be done, and sent my
requisition for labour, tools and material to the head-quarters at
Kilindini. In a short time workmen and supplies came pouring in,
and the noise of hammers and sledges, drilling and blasting echoed
merrily through the district.