<SPAN name="startofbook"></SPAN>
<h1> THE MAN-EATERS OF TSAVO AND<br/>Other East African Adventures </h1>
<h3> BY </h3>
<h2> Lieut.-Col. J. H. Patterson, D.S.O. </h2>
<br/><br/><br/>
<br/>
<h3> PREFACE </h3>
<p>It is with feelings of the greatest diffidence that I place the
following pages before the public; but those of my friends who happen
to have heard of my rather unique experiences in the wilds have so
often urged me to write an account of my adventures, that after much
hesitation I at last determined to do so.</p>
<p>I have no doubt that many of my readers, who have perhaps never been
very far away from civilisation, will be inclined to think that some of
the incidents are exaggerated. I can only assure them that I have toned
down the facts rather than otherwise, and have endeavoured to write a
perfectly plain and straightforward account of things as they actually
happened.</p>
<p>It must be remembered that at the time these events occurred, the
conditions prevailing in British East Africa were very different from
what they are to-day. The railway, which has modernised the aspect of
the place and brought civilisation in its train, was then only in
process of construction, and the country through which it was being
built was still in its primitive savage state, as indeed, away from the
railway, it still is.</p>
<p>If this simple account of two years' work and play in the wilds should
prove of any interest, or help even in a small way to call attention to
the beautiful and valuable country which we possess on the Equator, I
shall feel more than compensated for the trouble I have taken in
writing it.</p>
<p>I am much indebted to the Hon. Mrs. Cyril Ward, Sir Guilford
Molesworth, K.C.I.E., Mr. T.J. Spooner and Mr C. Rawson for their
kindness in allowing me to reproduce photographs taken by them. My
warmest thanks are also due to that veteran pioneer of Africa, Mr. F.C.
Selous, for giving my little book so kindly an introduction to the
public as is provided by the "Foreword" which he has been good enough
to write.</p>
<P CLASS="noindent">
J.H.P. August, 1907.</p>
<br/><br/><br/><br/>
<h3> FOREWORD </h3>
<p>It was some seven or eight years ago that I first read, in the pages of
The Field newspaper, a brief account written by Col. J.H. Patterson,
then an engineer engaged on the construction of the Uganda Railway, of
the Tsavo man-eating lions.</p>
<p>My own long experience of African hunting told me at once that every
word in this thrilling narrative was absolutely true. Nay more: I knew
that the author had told his story in a most modest manner, laying but
little stress on the dangers he had run when sitting up at nights to
try and compass the death of the terrible man-eaters, especially on
that one occasion when whilst watching from a very light scaffolding,
supported only by four rickety poles, he was himself stalked by one of
the dread beasts. Fortunately he did not lose his nerve, and succeeded
in shooting the lion, just when it was on the point of springing upon
him. But had this lion approached him from behind, I think it would
probably have added Col. Patterson to its long list of victims, for in
my own experience I have known of three instances of men having been
pulled from trees or huts built on platforms at a greater height from
the ground than the crazy structure on which Col. Patterson was
watching on that night of terrors.</p>
<p>From the time of Herodotus until to-day, lion stories innumerable have
been told and written. I have put some on record myself. But no lion
story I have ever heard or read equals in its long-sustained and
dramatic interest the story of the Tsavo man-eaters as told by Col.
Patterson. A lion story is usually a tale of adventures, often very
terrible and pathetic, which occupied but a few hours of one night; but
the tale of the Tsavo man-eaters is an epic of terrible tragedies
spread out over several months, and only at last brought to an end by
the resource and determination of one man.</p>
<p>It was some years after I read the first account published of the Tsavo
man-eaters that I made the acquaintance of President Roosevelt. I told
him all I remembered about it, and he was so deeply interested in the
story—as he is in all true stories of the nature and characteristics
of wild animals—that he begged me to send him the short printed
account as published in The Field. This I did; and it was only in the
last letter I received from him that, referring to this story,
President Roosevelt wrote: "I think that the incident of the Uganda
man-eating lions, described in those two articles you sent me, is the
most remarkable account of which we have any record. It is a great pity
that it should not be preserved in permanent form." Well, I am now glad
to think that it will be preserved in permanent form; and I venture to
assure Col. Patterson that President Roosevelt will be amongst the most
interested readers of his book.</p>
<p>It is probable that the chapters recounting the story of the Tsavo
man-eating lions will be found more absorbing than the other portions
of Col. Patterson's book; but I think that most of his readers will
agree with me that the whole volume is full of interest and
information. The account given by Col. Patterson of how he overcame all
the difficulties which confronted him in building a strong and
permanent railway bridge across the Tsavo river makes excellent
reading; whilst the courage he displayed in attacking, single-handed,
lions, rhinoceroses and other dangerous animals was surpassed by the
pluck, tact and determination he showed in quelling the formidable
mutiny which once broke out amongst his native Indian workers.</p>
<p>Finally, let me say that I have spent the best part of two nights
reading the proof-sheets of Col. Patterson's book, and I can assure him
that the time passed like magic. My interest was held from the first
page to the last, for I felt that every word I read was true.</p>
<P CLASS="noindent">
F. C. SELOUS.<br/>
WORPLESDON, SURREY.<br/>
September 18, 1907.<br/></p>
<h1> THE MAN-EATERS OF TSAVO </h1>
<SPAN name="chap01"></SPAN>
<h3> CHAPTER I </h3>
<h3> MY ARRIVAL AT TSAVO </h3>
<p>It was towards noon on March 1, 1898, that I first found myself
entering the narrow and somewhat dangerous harbour of Mombasa, on the
east coast of Africa. The town lies on an island of the same name,
separated from the mainland only by a very narrow channel, which forms
the harbour; and as our vessel steamed slowly in, close under the
quaint old Portuguese fortress built over three hundred years ago, I
was much struck with the strange beauty of the view which gradually
opened out before me. Contrary to my anticipation, everything looked
fresh and green, and an oriental glamour of enchantment seemed to hang
over the island. The old town was bathed in brilliant sunshine and
reflected itself lazily on the motionless sea; its flat roofs and
dazzlingly white walls peeped out dreamily between waving palms and
lofty cocoanuts, huge baobabs and spreading mango trees; and the darker
background of well-wooded hills and slopes on the mainland formed a
very effective setting to a beautiful and, to me, unexpected picture.</p>
<p>The harbour was plentifully sprinkled with Arab dhows, in some of
which, I believe, even at the present day, a few slaves are
occasionally smuggled off to Persia and Arabia. It has always been a
matter of great wonder to me how the navigators of little vessels find
their way from port to port, as they do, without the aid of either
compass or sextant, and how they manage to weather the terrible storms
that at certain seasons of the year suddenly visit eastern seas. I
remember once coming across a dhow becalmed in the middle of the Indian
Ocean, and its crew making signals of distress, our captain slowed down
to investigate. There were four men on board, all nearly dead from
thirst; they had been without drink of any kind for several days and
had completely lost their bearings. After giving them some casks of
water, we directed them to Muscat (the port they wished to make), and
our vessel resumed its journey, leaving them still becalmed in the
midst of that glassy sea. Whether they managed to reach their
destination I never knew.</p>
<p>As our steamer made its way to its anchorage, the romantic surroundings
of the harbour of Mombasa conjured up, visions of stirring adventures
of the past, and recalled to my mind the many tales of reckless doings
of pirates and slavers, which as a boy it had been my delight to read.
I remembered that it was at this very place that in 1498 the great
Vasco da Gama nearly lost his ship and life through the treachery of
his Arab pilot, who plotted to wreck the vessel on the reef which bars
more than half the entrance to the harbour. Luckily, this nefarious
design was discovered in time, and the bold navigator promptly hanged
the pilot, and would also have sacked the town but for the timely
submission and apologies of the Sultan. In the principal street of
Mombasa—appropriately called Vasco da Gama Street—there still stands
a curiously shaped pillar which is said to have been erected by this
great seaman in commemoration of his visit.</p>
<p>Scarcely had the anchor been dropped, when, as if by magic, our vessel
was surrounded by a fleet of small boats and "dug-outs" manned by
crowds of shouting and gesticulating natives. After a short fight
between some rival Swahili boatmen for my baggage and person, I found
myself being vigorously rowed to the foot of the landing steps by the
bahareen (sailors) who had been successful in the encounter. Now, my
object in coming out to East Africa at this time was to take up a
position to which I had been appointed by the Foreign Office on the
construction staff of the Uganda Railway. As soon as I landed,
therefore, I enquired from one of the Customs officials where the
headquarters of the railway were to be found, and was told that they
were at a place called Kilindini, some three miles away, on the other
side of the island. The best way to get there, I was further informed,
was by gharri, which I found to be a small trolley, having two seats
placed back to back under a little canopy and running on narrow rails
which are laid through the principal street of the town. Accordingly, I
secured one of these vehicles, which are pushed by two strapping
Swahili boys, and was soon flying down the track, which once outside
the town lay for the most part through dense groves of mango, baobab,
banana and palm trees, with here and there brilliantly coloured
creepers hanging in luxuriant festoons from the branches.</p>
<p>On arrival at Kilindini, I made my way to the railway Offices and was
informed that I should be stationed inland and should receive further
instructions in the course of a day or two. Meanwhile I pitched my tent
under some shady palms near the gharri line, and busied myself in
exploring the island and in procuring the stores and the outfit
necessary for a lengthy sojourn up-country. The town of Mombasa itself
naturally occupied most of my attention. It is supposed to have been
founded about A.D. 1000, but the discovery of ancient Egyptian idols,
and of coins of the early Persian and Chinese dynasties, goes to show
that it must at different ages have been settled by people of the very
earliest civilisations. Coming to more modern times, it was held on and
off from 1505 to 1729 by the Portuguese, a permanent memorial of whose
occupation remains in the shape of the grim old fortress, built about
1593—on the site, it is believed, of a still older stronghold. These
enterprising sea-rovers piously named it "Jesus Fort," and an
inscription recording this is still to be seen over the main entrance.
The Portuguese occupation of Mombasa was, however, not without its
vicissitudes. From March 15, 1696, for example, the town was besieged
for thirty-three consecutive months by a large fleet of Arab dhows,
which completely surrounded the island. In spite of plague, treachery
and famine, the little garrison held out valiantly in Jesus Fort, to
which they had been forced to retire, until December 12, 1698, when the
Arabs made a last determined attack and captured the citadel, putting
the remnant of the defenders, both men and women, to the sword. It is
pathetic to read that only two days later a large Portuguese fleet
appeared off the harbour, bringing the long-looked-for reinforcements.
After this the Portuguese made several attempts to reconquer Mombasa,
but were unsuccessful until 1728, when the town was stormed and
captured by General Sampayo. The Arabs, however, returned the next year
in overwhelming numbers, and again drove the Portuguese out; and
although the latter made one more attempt in 1769 to regain their
supremacy, they did not succeed.</p>
<p>The Arabs, as represented by the Sultan of Zanzibar, remain in nominal
possession of Mombasa to the present day; but in 1887 Seyid Bargash,
the then Sultan of Zanzibar, gave for an annual rental a concession of
his mainland territories to the British East Africa Association, which
in 1888 was formed into the Imperial British East Africa Company. In
1895 the Foreign Office took over control of the Company's possessions,
and a Protectorate was proclaimed; and ten years later the
administration of the country was transferred to the Colonial Office.</p>
<p>The last serious fighting on the island took place so recently as
1895-6, when a Swahili chief named M'baruk bin Rashed, who had three
times previously risen in rebellion against the Sultan of Zanzibar,
attempted to defy the British and to throw off their yoke. He was
defeated on several occasions, however, and was finally forced to flee
southwards into German territory. Altogether, Mombasa has in the past
well deserved its native name of Kisiwa M'vitaa, or "Isle of War"; but
under the settled rule now obtaining, it is rapidly becoming a thriving
and prosperous town, and as the port of entry for Uganda, it does a
large forwarding trade with the interior and has several excellent
stores where almost anything, from a needle to an anchor, may readily
be obtained.</p>
<p>Kilindini is, as I have said, on the opposite side of the island, and
as its name—"the place of deep waters"—implies, has a much finer
harbour than that possessed by Mombasa. The channel between the island
and the mainland is here capable of giving commodious and safe
anchorage to the very largest vessels, and as the jetty is directly
connected with the Uganda Railway, Kilindini has now really become the
principal port, being always used by the liners and heavier vessels.</p>
<p>I had spent nearly a week in Mombasa, and was becoming very anxious to
get my marching orders, when one morning I was delighted to receive an
official letter instructing me to proceed to Tsavo, about one hundred
and thirty-two miles from the coast, and to take charge of the
construction of the section of the line at that place, which had just
then been reached by railhead. I accordingly started at daylight next
morning in a special train with Mr. Anderson, the Superintendent of
Works, and Dr. McCulloch, the principal Medical Officer; and as the
country was in every way new to me, I found the journey a most
interesting one.</p>
<p>The island of Mombasa is separated from the mainland by the Strait of
Macupa, and the railway crosses this by a bridge about three-quarters
of a mile long, called the Salisbury Bridge, in honour of the great
Minister for Foreign Affairs under whose direction the Uganda Railway
scheme was undertaken. For twenty miles after reaching the mainland,
our train wound steadily upwards through beautifully wooded, park-like
country, and on looking back out of the carriage windows we could every
now and again obtain lovely views of Mombasa and Kilindini, while
beyond these the Indian Ocean sparkled in the glorious sunshine as far
as the eye could see. The summit of the Rabai Hills having been
reached, we entered on the expanse of the Taru Desert, a wilderness
covered with poor scrub and stunted trees, and carpeted in the dry
season with a layer of fine red dust. This dust is of a most
penetrating character, and finds its way into everything in the
carriage as the train passes along. From here onward game is more or
less plentiful, but the animals are very difficult to see owing to the
thick undergrowth in which they hide themselves. We managed, however,
to catch sight of a few from the carriage windows, and also noticed
some of the natives, the Wa Nyika, or "children of the wilderness."</p>
<p>At Maungu, some eighty miles from the coast, we came to the end of this
"desert," but almost the only difference to be noticed in the character
of the country was that the colour of the dust had changed. As our
train sped onwards through the level uplands we saw a fine ostrich
striding along parallel with the line, as if having a race with us. Dr.
McCulloch at once seized his rifle and by a lucky shot brought down the
huge bird; the next and greater difficulty, however, was to secure the
prize. For a time the engine-driver took no notice of our signals and
shouts, but at last we succeeded in attracting his attention, and the
train was shunted back to where the ostrich had fallen. We found it to
be an exceptionally fine specimen, and had to exert all our strength to
drag it on board the train.</p>
<p>Soon after this we reached Voi, about a hundred miles from the coast,
and as this was the most important station on the line that we had yet
come to, we made a short halt in order to inspect some construction
work which was going on. On resuming our journey, we soon discovered
that a pleasant change had occurred in the character of the landscape.
From a place called N'dii, the railway runs for some miles through a
beautifully wooded country, which looked all the more inviting after
the deadly monotony of the wilderness through which we had just passed.
To the south of us could be seen the N'dii range of mountains, the
dwelling-place of the Wa Taita people, while on our right rose the
rigid brow of the N'dungu Escarpment, which stretches away westwards
for scores of miles. Here our journey was slow, as every now and again
we stopped to inspect the permanent works in progress; but eventually,
towards dusk, we arrived at our destination, Tsavo. I slept that night
in a little palm hut which had been built by some previous traveller,
and which was fortunately unoccupied for the time being. It was rather
broken-down and dilapidated, not even possessing a door, and as I lay
on my narrow camp bed I could see the stars twinkling through the roof.
I little knew then what adventures awaited me in this neighbourhood;
and if I had realised that at that very time two savage brutes were
prowling round, seeking whom they might devour, I hardly think I should
have slept so peacefully in my rickety shelter.</p>
<p>Next morning I was up betimes, eager to make acquaintance with my new
surroundings. My first impression on coming out of my hut was that I
was hemmed in on all sides by a dense growth of impenetrable jungle:
and on scrambling to the top of a little hill close at hand, I found
that the whole country as far as I could see was covered with low,
stunted trees, thick undergrowth and "wait-a-bit" thorns. The only
clearing, indeed, appeared to be where the narrow track for the railway
had been cut. This interminable nyika, or wilderness of whitish and
leafless dwarf trees, presented a ghastly and sun-stricken appearance;
and here and there a ridge of dark-red heat-blistered rock jutted out
above the jungle, and added by its rugged barrenness to the dreariness
of the picture. Away to the north-east stretched the unbroken line of
the N'dungu Escarpment, while far off to the south I could just catch a
glimpse of the snow-capped top of towering Kilima N'jaro. The one
redeeming feature of the neighbourhood was the river from which Tsavo
takes its name. This is a swiftly-flowing stream, always cool and
always running, the latter being an exceptional attribute in this part
of East Africa; and the fringe of lofty green trees along its banks
formed a welcome relief to the general monotony of the landscape.</p>
<p>When I had thus obtained a rough idea of the neighbourhood, I returned
to my hut, and began in earnest to make preparations for my stay in
this out-of-the-way place. The stores were unpacked, and my "boys"
pitched my tent in a little clearing close to where I had slept the
night before and not far from the main camp of the workmen. Railhead
had at this time just reached the western side of the river, and some
thousands of Indian coolies and other workmen were encamped there. As
the line had to be pushed on with all speed, a diversion had been made
and the river crossed by means of a temporary bridge. My principal work
was to erect the permanent structure, and to complete all the other
works for a distance of thirty miles on each side of Tsavo. I
accordingly made a survey of what had to be done, and sent my
requisition for labour, tools and material to the head-quarters at
Kilindini. In a short time workmen and supplies came pouring in, and
the noise of hammers and sledges, drilling and blasting echoed merrily
through the district.</p>
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