us a man for each canoe, also Portuguese colours, suspecting
that some of the troops which might be encountered during
the journey would fire on us, not knowing, who we were.
Now the Leviathan was under two flags, the tattered and
torn old Jack making one think of a Waterloo veteran,
while the bright Portuguese ensign was a raw recruit.
“ I t looks as though we are in for it to-night, Fred.”
“ Yes; will be plenty rain this night.”
On the right hank of the river we saw what appeared to
be a deserted village or camp, over which a few carrion
vultures hovered, giving an additional wildness to the
general desolation. The position was far from desirable for
occupation, but as we wanted shelter we landed, running
the canoes into a small creek, which afforded protection
from the high wind, by this time lashing the waters into
waves.
Evidently the spot had been a temporary camp of
Mazinjiri fugitives, and had subsequently been oecupied by
their enemies. Everything was in a wrecked condition.
The only shelter that could be found were hastily formed
grass huts, structures composed of forked sticks, with heaps
of long rank grass thrown over the eross poles.
Moramhala mountain, shutting out the southern sky, was
clearly visible. Its old granite head towers 4,000 feet above
the river which it skirts.
Each of the company quiekly made his choice of a
shelter ; and not too soon ; for now the threats of the storm
king were vividly signalled in the lurid heavens. Out in
the far distance sped the fragments of broken clouds,
holding in their watery nucleus the forces of the fiercest
power of fire, and closing together in dense unity ready for
the rising tempest; their deepening darkness covering the
heavens, eclipsing the sun, and anticipating night.
Stray sunbeams occasionally darted from breaks in the
mass of closing gloom, flitting swiftly over the boundless
expanse of reeds, and then vanishing from the scene of desolation,
over which the wind howled its old tune, the wild
weird notes of countless ages and endless time. All the
offspring of the earth seemed to yield to aerial anger; the
swamp was swept into deep green waves, while wildly
impetuous gusts tore our rude shelters ruthlessly, and
scattered their coverings like chaff.
As night drew near small clouds of grey mottled turtle
doves shot past, and we could hear the harsh cry of spurwinged
geese high up in rapid flight crossing to and fro;
We also saw the last flock of flamingoes, returning to their
roosts, flying low, being driven by the wild wind, and
uttering that loud croaking sound which is so strangely
uncanny as it dies away in the distance.
Then came night, dark as the deepest dungeon. A roar
that might have filled the universe told that the demon spirit
of the storm rode on. Brightest day and blackest night followed
in instantaneous succession. The stately palms, which
tossed their feathery fronds to the maddened gale, stood out
in relief clear against a glowing electric curtain; the light,
in a thousand fiery forks, flashing from the brow of
blackened Moramhala, and the vivid inconstant glare shone
upon the winding course of the mountain torrent, until it
seemed as though the deadly enemies of fire and water ran
in currents side by side.
Above in the murky gloom a star might now and then be
seen, to twinkle for an instant, and be lost.
On sped the tempest. The wind shrieked over the
yielding reeds, and above the clinging thatch that remained
hanging on our hurdle roofs. Then the floodgates opened
and down came the deluge, the clouds discharging their