May 4th.—–­Arrived at Kingwere’s Ferry, but we were unable to attract the attention of the canoe paddler.  Between our camp and Bagamoyo we have an inundated plain that is at least four miles broad.  The ferrying of our Expedition across this broad watery waste will occupy considerable time.

May 5th.—­Kingwere, the canoe proprietor, came about 11 A.M. from his village at Gongoni, beyond the watery plain.  By his movements I am fain to believe him to be a descendant of some dusky King Log, for I have never seen in all this land the attributes and peculiarities of that royal personage so faithfully illustrated as in Kingwere.  He brought two canoes with him, short, cranky things, in which only twelve of us could embark at a time.  It was 3 o’clock in the afternoon before we arrived at Gongoni village.

May 6th.—­After impressing Kingwere with the urgent necessity of quick action on his part, with a promise of an extra five-dollar gold piece, I had the satisfaction to behold the last man reach my camp at 3.30 p.m.

An hour later, and we are en route, at a pace that I never saw equalled at any time by my caravan.  Every man’s feelings are intensified, for there is an animated, nay, headlong, impetuosity about their movements that indicates but too well what is going on in their minds.  Surely, my own are a faithful index to their feelings; and I do not feel a whit too proud to acknowledge the great joy that possesses me.  I feel proud to think that I have been successful; but, honestly, I do not feel so elated at that as at the hope that to-morrow I shall sit before a table bounteous with the good things of this life.  How I will glory in the hams, and potatoes, and good bread!  What a deplorable state of mind, is it not?  Ah, my friend, wait till you are reduced to a skeleton by gaunt famine and coarse, loathsome food—­until you have waded a Makata swamp, and marched 525 miles in thirty-five days through such weather as we have had—­then you will think such pabula, food fit for gods!

Happy are we that,—­after completing our mission, after the hurry and worry of the march, after the anxiety and vexation suffered from fractious tribes, after tramping for the last fifteen days through mire and Stygian marsh,—­we near Beulah’s peace and rest!  Can we do otherwise than express our happiness by firing away gunpowder until our horns are emptied—­than shout our “hurrahs” until we are hoarse—­than, with the hearty, soul-inspiring “Yambos,” greet every mother’s son fresh from the sea?  Not so, think the Wangwana soldiers; and I so sympathize with them that I permit them to act their maddest without censure.

At sunset we enter the town of Bagamoyo.  “More pilgrims come to town,” were the words heard in Beulah.  “The white man has come to town,” were the words we heard in Bagamoyo.  And we shall cross the water tomorrow to Zanzibar, and shall enter the golden gate; we shall see nothing, smell nothing, taste nothing that is offensive to the stomach any more!