Nighttime departure—still a trio—Kennedy’s urges—precautions—the Chari’s course—Lake Chad—the water in the lake—the hippopotamus—a wasted bullet.
During his watch at around three in the morning, Joe finally saw the town move off beneath his feet. The Victoria had resumed her travels. Kennedy and the doctor woke up.
Samuel checked the compass and was pleased to note that the wind was taking them north-northeast.
“A stroke of luck,” he said. “Everything’s in our favor; we’ll find our way to Lake Chad before the day is out.”
“Is it a good-sized lake?” Kennedy asked.
“Substantial, my dear Dick; its maximum length and breadth both measure about 120 miles.”
“It’ll add a little variety to our trip to take a jaunt over a body of water.”
“Yet I don’t think we have any reason to complain; we’ve had ample variety, and more significantly, we’ve had it under the best possible conditions.”
“No question, Samuel; except for those hardships out in the desert, we haven’t run any serious risks.”
“The fact is, our good Victoria has always conducted herself marvelously. Today’s May 12; we left on April 18; that makes twenty-five days of travel. Another ten days or so and we’ll reach the coast.”
“Where exactly?”
“I have no idea; what difference does it make?”
“You’re right, Samuel; we’ll leave it to Providence to guide us and keep us in our current good shape! We don’t look like we’ve been crossing the world’s most infected countries!”
“We were able to rise above it all, and we have.”
“Let’s hear it for journeys through the air!” Joe exclaimed. “After twenty-five days we’re still fit, well fed, and perfectly rested—maybe too rested, because my limbs are starting to feel rusty, and I wouldn’t mind doing thirty miles to shake out the kinks!”
“You’ll have that pleasure in the streets of London, Joe; but I’ll finish by saying that we set out from there as a trio like Denham, Clapperton, and Overweg, or Barth, Richardson, and Vogel—and we’ve been luckier than our predecessors, so we’re still a trio! But it’s vitally important that we don’t separate. If one of us were on the ground, then suddenly the Victoria had to lift off to dodge an unforeseen danger, who knows if we’d ever meet up again? That’s why I’m quick to tell Kennedy that I don’t like him going too far when he’s out hunting.”
“Kindly let me have my little fun, Samuel my friend; it can’t hurt to replenish our provisions; besides, before our departure you painted me a picture of all sorts of superb hunting, and so far I haven’t given Andersson or Gordon-Cumming much of a run for their money.”
“But my dear Dick, either your memory’s failing, or your modesty makes you forget your achievements; it seems to me you already have an antelope, an elephant, and two lions on your conscience, not to mention various small fry.”
“Phooey! What’s that to an African hunter who sees the whole animal kingdom pass in front of his sights? Well, I’ll be! Look at that herd of giraffes!”
“Those are giraffes?” Joe said. “They’re the size of my fist!”
“Because we’re a thousand feet overhead; but if you were beside them, you’d see that they’re three times your height!”
“And how about that herd of gazelle,” Kennedy went on, “and those ostriches racing like the wind?”
“Those are ostriches?” Joe said. “They look like chickens … well-built chickens!”
“See here, Samuel, can’t we get closer to ’em?”
“We can get closer, Dick, but not touch down. Seriously, what’s the point of shooting animals you can’t make use of? If it was a matter of exterminating a lion, a wildcat, or a hyena, I could understand; we’d have one less predator on the loose; but to slay an antelope or gazelle for no good reason other than to satisfy your everyday hunting urges, that really isn’t justified.1 Even so, my friend, we’re going to stay a hundred feet up, so if you spot some fierce predator, do us the favor of putting a bullet in its heart.”
The Victoria dropped down little by little, nevertheless staying at a comforting altitude. In that hostile, heavily populated region, they had to be wary of unexpected perils.
So our travelers faithfully followed the Chari’s course; the delightful banks of this river vanished under the variously colored shade trees; clinging vines and creepers were winding every which way, creating the oddest tangles of color. As lively as lizards, crocodiles were romping in the bright sunlight or diving into the water; while at play they pulled alongside the many green islands that impeded the river’s current.
Consequently it was in the midst of this lush rural greenery that the district of Maffatay went by. Around nine o’clock in the morning, Dr. Fergusson and his friends finally reached the south shore of Lake Chad.
So this was Africa’s answer to the Caspian Sea, a huge lake whose existence had long been relegated to the realm of tall tales, an inland sea visited only by the expeditions under Denham and Barth.
The doctor tried to pin down its current layout, already quite different from what it had been in 1847; in essence there’s no way to draft an accurate map of this lake; it’s surrounded by viscous marshes that are virtually impossible to cross, marshes in which Barth felt sure he would perish; they’re covered with reeds and fifteen-foot papyrus plants, and in a year’s time they become part of the lake itself; often, too, the towns spreading along its edges end up half submerged (as happened to Ngornu in 1856), and now gators and hippopotamuses swim in the same spots where many Bornu dwellings used to stand.
The sun poured its blinding rays over those tranquil waves, and to the north the two elements of fire and water merged into a single horizon.
The doctor wanted to confirm the nature of the lake’s contents, long thought to be salt water; its surface wasn’t dangerous to approach, and their gondola skimmed over it like a bird, just five feet up.
Joe dipped a bottle in and drew it out half full; sampling the water, they found it wasn’t fit to drink and tasted a little like baking soda.
While the doctor was jotting down the results of his experiment, a gunshot rang out next to him. Kennedy couldn’t resist firing a bullet at a monstrous hippopotamus; the animal had been lazing on the surface, then had vanished underwater at the sound of the shot—although the hunter’s conical bullet didn’t seem to have troubled the beast otherwise.
“It’d be better to harpoon him,” Joe said.
“How?”
“With one of our anchors. They come with the right size hook for that sort of animal!”
“Hmm,” Kennedy said, “Joe’s onto something there …”
“Which I beg you not to put into practice!” the doctor fired back. “The animal would promptly drag us someplace we aren’t interested in going.”
“Especially now that we’ve figured out the water quality in Lake Chad. Is this thing good eating, Dr. Fergusson, this fish that got away?”
“Your fish, Joe, is quite simply a mammal belonging to the pachyderm order; its meat is excellent, they say, and the lakeside tribes do a booming business in these creatures.”
“Then I’m sorry Mr. Kennedy’s gunshot wasn’t up to snuff.”
“The animal is vulnerable only in the belly and between the haunches; Dick’s bullet wouldn’t even have broken its skin. But if the terrain strikes me as promising, we’ll lay over at the north end of the lake; there Kennedy will have a whole menagerie to choose from, and he’ll be able to make up for lost time.”
“Well,” Joe said, “let’s hope Mr. Dick gets in a little hippo hunting! I’d like to sample the meat of that amphibious beast. It doesn’t exactly seem natural to visit the heart of Africa, then dine on woodcock and partridge as if we were back in England!”