The Man-Eaters of Tsavo | Page 4

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