On we went again to Marenga Mkhaili, the "Salt Water," to
breakfast, and camped in the crooked green thorns by night,
carrying water on for our supper. This kind of travelling--
forced marches--hard as it may appear, was what we liked best,
for we felt that we were shortening the journey, and in doing so,
shortening the risks of failure by disease, by war, by famine,
and by mutiny. We had here no grasping chiefs to detain us for
presents, nor had our men time to become irritable and truculent,
concoct devices for stopping the way, or fight amongst
themselves.

On again, and at last we arrived at the foot of the western
chain; but not all together. Some porters, overcome by heat and
thirst, lay scattered along the road, while the corporal of the
Hottentots allowed his mule to stray from him, never dreaming the
animal would travel far from his comrades, and, in following
after him, was led such a long way into the bush, that my men
became alarmed for his safety, knowing as they did that the
"savages" were out living like monkeys on the calabash fruit, and
looking out for any windfalls, such as stragglers worth
plundering, that might come in their way. At first the Wanguana
attempted to track down the corporal; but finding he would not
answer their repeated shots, and fearful for their own safety,
they came into camp and reported the case. Losing no time, I
ordered twenty men, armed with carbines, to carry water for the
distressed porters, and bring the corporal back as soon as
possible. They all marched off, as they always do on such
exploits, in high good-humour with themselves for the valour
which they intended to show; and in the evening came in, firing
their guns in the most reckless manner, beaming with delight; for