The Missionary
It had been a long day for reverend Eastwood. Moving into the vicarage had taken two very busy days and he sat in his new study relaxing with a well-earned coffee his wife Amelia had brought him. His eyes ranged over the well-stocked library shelves the previous reverend had left behind in the vicarage. Looking along one shelf he noticed a few books at the end weren't sitting flush with the others.
Being slightly compulsive, it irked him somewhat. "That needs fixing" he thought to himself. "It can wait until tomorrow." As he sat enjoying his relaxing coffee, it continued to irritate him. "Maybe it can't wait" he said out loud as he walked towards the problem intending to fix it.
The books would not push in flush with the others. Something was preventing it. Taking a couple of dust covered books away, it was obvious what the problem was. There was a book behind them. Retrieving it, he was startled to find it was a diary.
Curious about what was in it, he returned to his comfortable chair and coffee. Opening the front cover, he began to read;
December 1937 This is the diary of James Lock, Chapham village Somerset.
If anyone should discover this diary or should I say memoir it is because I failed to destroy it before I died. It is not my day-to-day diary but a secret one which I would not like to fall into the hands of others. The reasons will become obvious as the tale unfolds. I only write it because the contents are so outlandish, I could be forgiven if they were the results of possible delirium, and so that I may wish to revisit the events at a later day to affirm my sanity.
The following descriptions of events and recollections of conversations are as close to verbatim as I remember, together with conversations with my wife Florence, of recollections of both spoken word and her thoughts at the time, and also of consideration of the fact that some details were recorded in retrospect at a later date. I recorded some of these events in a journal shortly after they occurred, some copied from my wife's own journals, and some which I made from recollected events at later dates, which were finally compiled to form this full record.
In early 1901 I was contacted by my bishop to see if I would replace the missionary in Northeast Nigeria in Africa who was in failing health. The details of which are irrelevant to the account, suffice to say that I, after consulting my wife of five years agreed. She if anything, was more enthusiastic than I about bringing the word of the Lord to ignorant heathens.
The following narrative is accurate in all details to the best of my recollections, together with my wife's;
February 1901
The expedition had been well planned by the Baptist church back in Britain, planning our journey from England by steamship and then by riverboat and finally by caravan.
The steamship passage was uneventful but still a novel adventure, I having never having travelled by sea before. Enjoying good weather, we arrived 3 weeks later, leaving the cold winter weather behind us, to a hot and humid West coast of Africa. We approached the Niger Delta with the offshore winds casting new scents and smells towards us making us shiver with the excitement of anticipation. We were very eager to disembark.
We were greeted by our guide John Beecham, a deeply tanned, rugged and capable looking man in his fifties who had been engaged by the incumbent missionary and his wife. He was a long-practised hunter and explorer who had lived in Africa for over thirty years. We had been assured we were in the good hands of someone who knew the country extremely well. He had organised for us to join a riverboat taking a group of big game hunters who were also travelling up river to a point of the river where we were to disembark together, and then travelling together for around a further 50 miles where we were to separate and go our different ways, they onward to who knows where, us a further 100 miles Easterly. The point where we were to disembark from the riverboat was the meeting point for the bulk of the baggage bearers, who had gone on ahead of us.
At the port of our arrival, we stayed in local accommodation while the final stores and provisions were sourced and gathered together for the coming journey. After less than a week we were almost ready, the riverboat, which was surprisingly large, was ready for us to embark the following morning.
A beautiful early morning greeted us, ready to catch the tide to take us up river. With high spirits we boarded and made ourselves comfortable in our cabin prior to casting off from the wharf.
The shallow draft riverboat would take us upriver to a point where rapids would prevent further progress, and from which we then would travel by oxen cart inland 150 miles North Eastward, to an area a further surrounded by remote villages.
The journey upriver took two full weeks, mooring each night to avoid any dangerous rocks. The trek by oxen cart, another ten to twelve days. My wife Florence and I were both eager to start our work, but we were so enthralled by the novel scenery of the land, the exotic smells and its animals to notice the passage of time. Florence in particular, was thrilled by the sight, sounds and smells of everything. I took great pleasure marvelling at her excitement and enthusiasm of the adventure we were travelling on. I was a lucky man to have married her. She was indeed pretty and had been courted by many suitors hoping to marry her. I felt exceptionally fortunate that she had feelings for me as I had little to offer, being a simple clergyman with a small income albeit with an annuity from my businessman father.
Our guide I think, was smitten by her good looks, and she only had to ask for anything and he was pleased to oblige, ardent as a lovestruck adolescent, and only to be rewarded by her smile. I had noticed this behaviour from lots of men before. If she hadn't decided to become a vicar's wife, she could easily have married into great fortune on her looks alone.
The caravan consisted of half a dozen teams of oxen and carts. We had only brought a few personal things with us, intending to send for other items in the future, the bulk of the items we carried were needed at the mission and were requested by the incumbent missionary, Josiah Brentwood.
After having travelled along the Niger then branching along the Benue river to a point we must disembark, our trekking party then continued for the North Eastward leg across the heartland. Having already travelled more than 60 miles in the hot and humid conditions since leaving the boat, we were eager to complete our journey. The group of 4 big game hunters had made welcome travelling companions. We saw journeying with accomplished armed men as a fortunate safeguard, but unfortunately, they had left us departing a couple of days earlier to join another hunting party traveling north. That left the Four of us including our servant Carstairs and a dozen native bearers to complement our caravan North.
It had been three weeks of slow trek. "If only we had horses" Florence had mused, "Life would be so much easier." Horses were few and far between here in Nigeria.
Florence had struggled with the heat and humidity at first, especially dressed in European clothes including corset and flannelled underwear, modifying her garb to suit, disposing of some of the heavier items. Now dressed in similar fashion to the men in khaki shirt but with a silk camisole and culottes and silk underwear, and calf length boots.
Florence had complained to me about the black porters staring at her but I assured her it was only because they had probably never seen a white woman before let alone one who was blond. I told her that I would speak to our guide and that he would instruct the head porter, who I called Adam because I couldn't pronounce his African name.
Carstairs and I called the head porter over and told him that this behaviour must cease. Adam said in his broken pidgin English he would speak to his men. Nevertheless, the stares continued even more.
Over the next two days the native porters were clearly becoming agitated and uneasy about something. Florence asked, first our own guide, who spoke the native language, what it was which was making them fidget so much. He told her it was nothing to be concerned about, however when she asked me if he had told me anything different, I naively confirmed the guide had informed me they were apprehensive about approaching a dangerous tribes' lands.
After we had set up camp the following afternoon, the porters gathered in a group and animatedly pointed and gestured in raised voices, discussing something in their own language.
"What are they talking about?" Florence asked.
"They are about to leave us." replied Beecham. "They say that now the hunters have left we have less guns for protection."
"They can't leave, we need them to carry our belongings and equipment, so we can continue on to our missionary work at the mission."
