As we filed out of the stronghold of Mfuto, with waving banners
denoting the various commanders, with booming horns, and the roar
of fifty bass drums, called gomas - with blessings showered on us
by the mollahs, and happiest predications from the soothsayers,
astrologers, and the diviners of the Koran - who could have foretold
that this grand force, before a week passed over its head, would be
hurrying into that same stronghold of Mfuto, with each man's heart
in his mouth from fear?
The date of our leaving Mfuto for battle with Mirambo was the
3rd of August. All my goods were stored in Mfuto, ready for the
march to Ujiji, should we be victorious over the African chief,
but at least for safety, whatever befel us.
Long before we reached Umanda, I was in my hammock in the
paroxysms of a fierce attack of intermittent fever, which did
not leave me until late that night.
At Umanda, six hours from Mfuto, our warriors bedaubed themselves
with the medicine which the wise men had manufactured for them - a
compound of matama flour mixed with the juices of a herb whose
virtues were only known to the Waganga of the Wanyamwezi.
At 6 A.M. on the 4th of August we were once more prepared for the
road, but before we were marched out of the village, the "manneno,"
or speech, was delivered by the orator of the Wanyamwezi:
