148 THE BONDS OF AFRICA 



God and Portugal. There are few pages of 

 history drenched in more blood than the story 

 of the Portuguese conquests of East Africa. 

 Those hardy old navigators, who sailed their 

 gorgeous cockle-shells around the Cape, did 

 battle with wild tribes from the interior, Turkish 

 corsairs, sanguinary Sultans, monsoons and 

 malaria and mutiny. One can only marvel at 

 the sum and total of what those brave spirits 

 achieved. They well-nigh crossed Africa, and 

 even in these advanced days the man who 

 traverses the Last Continent has something to 

 sing a song about. 



It is well to remember all this when one visits 

 Mozambique. Otherwise there is a natural in- 

 clination to regard the place as a town that was 

 born asleep and has been content to doze through 

 a life of siesta. It is true that black cannons 

 peer out seawards, and that the colossal iron 

 marbles which in bygone days were no doubt 

 important factors in the calculation of power 

 are piled by the wooden carriages. But we who 

 have come to think in terms of Dreadnoughts 

 and 13*5 calibres, are inclined to scoff at these 

 old blunderbusses and their rusty cannon-balls. 

 Yet they have played their part in the tragedy 

 of triumph. War ! red war ! Mozambique, like 

 Mombasa, knew its sound as well as any citadel 

 on earth. For centuries this was a coast round 

 which blood flowed in a steady current until it 

 dyed much of the coral red and gory. And in 

 those days the fortress of San Sebastian was the 

 stronghold of Eastern Africa. 



Autres temps, autres moeurs. Enter with me 

 to-day the fortress of San Sebastian. Courte- 

 ously, a little Portuguese soldier, clad in khaki, 

 with a medal or two on his breast — I have been 



