The Reis, Or Captain Of The Government Boat That
Had Caused The Mischief, Far From Apologizing, Commenced The Foulest
Abuse;
And refused to give oars in exchange for those he had destroyed.
To start was impossible without oars, and an
Angry altercation being
carried on between my men and the Government boat, it was necessary to
come to closer quarters. The reis of the Government boat was a gigantic
black, a Tokrouri (native of Darfur), who, confident in his strength,
challenged any one to come on board, nor did any of my fellows respond
to the invitation. The insolence of Turkish Government officials is
beyond description - my oars were smashed, and this insult was the
reparation; so, stepping quickly on board, and brushing a few fellows on
one side, I was obliged to come to a physical explanation with the
captain, which terminated in a delivery of the oars. The bank of the
river was thronged with people, many were mere idlers attracted by the
bustle of the start, and others, the friends and relatives of my people,
who had come to say a last good-bye, with many women, to raise the Arab
cry of parting. Among others, was a tall, debauched-looking fellow,
excessively drunk and noisy, who, quarrelling with a woman who attempted
to restrain him, insisted upon addressing a little boy named Osman,
declaring that he should not accompany me unless he gave him a dollar to
get some drink. Osman was a sharp Arab boy of twelve years old, whom I
had engaged as one of the tent servants, and the drunken Arab was his
father, who wished to extort some cash from his son before he parted;
but the boy Osman showed his filial affection in a most touching manner,
by running into the cabin, and fetching a powerful hippopotamus whip,
with which he requested me to have his father thrashed, or "he would
never be gone." Without indulging this amiable boy's desire, we shoved
off; the three vessels rowed into the middle of the river, and hoisted
sail; a fair wind, and strong current, moved us rapidly down the stream;
the English flags fluttered gaily on the masts, and amidst the shouting
of farewells, and the rattling of musketry, we started for the sources
of the Nile. On passing the steamer belonging to the Dutch ladies,
Madame van Capellan, and her charming daughter, Mademoiselle Tinne, we
saluted them with a volley, and kept up a mutual waving of handkerchiefs
until out of view; little did we think that we should never meet those
kind faces again, and that so dreadful a fate would envelope almost the
entire party. [The entire party died of fever on the White Nile,
excepting Mademoiselle Tinne. The victims to the fatal climate of
Central Africa were Madame la Baronne van Capellan, her sister, two
Dutch maidservants, Dr. Steudner, and Signor Contarini.]
It was the 18th December, 1862, Thursday, one of the most lucky days for
a start, according to Arab superstition.
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