Early in the morning, while the thick white mist is still hanging athwart the forest, a drummer is kicked out of bed by a white foot and bidden to sound “Reveille.”  Then there is a din of elephant-tusk horns and the clatter of the elephant-hide drums.  The camp is astir, and it all seems as if the men are as smart and as disciplined as their brother warriors in Aldershot or Shorncliffe.  But the negroes have only risen thus readily in order to light their fires and settle down to a lusty breakfast of plantains.  After his tub, his quinine and tea, Baden-Powell sends for King Matikoli and demands to know why his three hundred Krobo are not on parade.  His Majesty smiles and explains to the white chief that he is suffering from rheumatism in the shoulder, and therefore he, and consequently his tribe, cannot march that day.  Baden-Powell, with his contradictory smile, solemnly produces a Cockle’s pill (Colonel Burnaby’s vade mecum), hands it to the monarch, and remarks that if his tribe are not on the march in five minutes he will be fined an entire shilling.  “The luxury,” exclaims B.-P., “of fining a real, live king to the extent of one shilling.”  The king goes away for five minutes, and then returns with the intelligence that if the white chief will provide his men with some salt to eat with their “chop” (food) he really thinks they will be able to march that day.  B.-P. expresses a feverish desire to oblige His Majesty, and proceeds with great alacrity to cut a beautifully lithe and whippy cane.  In an instant that tribe is marching forward with their commissariat loads upon their heads.  But there are others still to be dealt with.  The captains of one tribe are discussing the situation, and would like Baden-Powell to hear their views.  Baden-Powell treats them as Lord Salisbury, say, would no doubt like to treat the deputations that sometimes come to give him the benefit of their opinions; he looks to his repeating rifle, talks about fourteen corpses blocking the way of retirement, and hey presto! the other tribe is swinging down the forest-path laughing, singing, and chattering, like children released from school.

On they march through the heavy forest, a long twisting line of men, until the halt is made at mid-day for two hours’ chop and parade.  Then tools are served out and every company is set to work.  One clears the bush, another cuts stockade posts, a third cuts palm-leaf wattle, a fourth digs stockade holes, and a fifth is set to keep guard over the camp and prevent men from hiding in huts.  By sunset some seven or eight acres are cleared of bush, large palm-thatched sheds are to be seen in long regular lines, while in the centre stands a fort with its earth rampart bound up by stockade and wattle, and having in its interior two huts, one for hospital and one for storehouse.  Besides this the natives bridged innumerable streams and dug and drained roads wherever necessary.