_Nov. 13._—Upon landing at Bagamoyo on the morning of the 13th, we marched to occupy the old house where we had stayed so long to prepare the First Expedition. The goods were stored, the dogs chained up, the riding asses tethered, the rifles arrayed in the store-room, and the sectional boat laid under a roof close by, on rollers, to prevent injury from the white ants—a precaution which, I need hardly say, we had to observe throughout our journey. Then some more ration money, sufficient for ten days, had to be distributed among the men, the young Pococks were told off to various camp duties to initiate them to exploring life in Africa, and then, after the first confusion of arrival had subsided, I began to muster the new _engagés_. But within three hours Bagamoyo was in a ferment. “The white man has brought all the robbers, ruffians, and murderers of Zanzibar to take possession of the town,” was the rumour that ran wildly through all the streets, lanes, courts, and bazaars. Men with bloody faces, wild, bloodshot eyes, bedraggled, rumpled and torn dresses, reeled up to our orderly and nearly silent quarters clamouring for rifles and ammunition. Arabs with drawn swords, and sinewy Baluchis with matchlocks and tinder ready to be ignited, came up threatening, and, following them, a miscellaneous rabble of excited men, while, in the background, seethed a mob of frantic women and mischievous children. “What is the matter?” I asked, scarcely knowing how to begin to calm this turbulent mass of passionate beings. “Matter!” was echoed. “What is the matter?” was repeated. “Matter enough. The town is in an uproar. Your men are stealing, murdering, robbing goods from the stores, breaking plates, killing our chickens, assaulting everybody, drawing knives on our women after abusing them, and threatening to burn the town and exterminate everybody. Matter indeed! matter enough! What do you mean by bringing this savage rabble from Zanzibar?” So fumed and sputtered an Arab of some consequence among the magnates of Bagamoyo. “Dear me, my friend, this is shocking; terrible. Pray sit down, and be patient. Sit down here by me, and let us talk this over like wise men,” I said in soothing tones to this _enfant terrible_, for he really looked in feature, dress, and demeanour, what, had I been an imaginative raw youth, I should have set down as the “incarnate scourge of Africa,” and he looked wicked enough with his bare, sinewy arms, his brandished sword, and fierce black eyes, to chop off my innocent head. The Arab, with a short nod, accepted my proposition and seated himself. “We are about to have a _Shauri_—a consultation.” “Hush there! Silence!” “Words!” “Shauri!” “Words—open your ears!” “Slaves!” “Fools!” “List, Arabs!” “You Baluch there, rein in your tongue!” &c. &c., cried out a wild mixture of voices in a strange mixture of tongues, commanding, or imploring, silence.