Wreckless Katie Golding

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Books. Change. Lives.

Also by Katie Golding

Moto Grand Prix

Fearless

Copyright © 2021 by Katie Golding

Cover and internal design © 2021 by Sourcebooks

Cover art by Kris Keller/Lott Reps

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All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any
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The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are
used fictitiously. Any similarity

to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended

by the author.

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Published by Sourcebooks Casablanca, an imprint of Sourcebooks

P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410

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Contents

Front Cover

Title Page
Copyright

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19
Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Excerpt from the next MotoGP

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Back Cover

For my husband—I remain your biggest fan.

Wanna battle?

Chapter 1

Lorelai Hargrove—March; Doha, Qatar

Third gear.

The cool night air screams past me as I downshift in my approach to

turn fourteen, a hard right
corner on the Losail International track. A smile rushes across my lips
as my Dabria lies deep into the

tighter-than-tight turn, my knee scraping the Qatar track rippling past

my helmet.

I tuck in my elbow and control my breathing, harnessing all my

anticipation into crisp, unbridled

focus. Twenty-one laps down, two turns to go, and then I will fly over
the finish line: the first woman

in history to win a race in Moto Grand Prix. The first woman ever to
race in MotoPro. And all I have

to do is what I’ve done for ten years: beat Massimo to the finish line.

Fourth gear. I tilt my bike vertical and charge toward the sharp left of
fifteen. Fifth gear. Sixth.

Golden dust flashes on my right, black pavement and gray bailout

gravel rushing by my left. The stars

of Doha are sparkling above me, but the stadium lights of Losail lead
the way—a lit path on the dark

track guiding me home to the checkered flag, riding the glory rained
down on me from the thousands

of screaming fans I can’t hear over my engine.

They want it—for me to win—and I can’t wait to give it to them.

Time to deal with Massimo.

I fade left, forcing my oldest rival farther inside the lane than he
wants to be. As far as I’m
concerned, that’s what he gets. Massimo peeks at me over his
shoulder, and I don’t care how sexy his

stubble is. Today is the day I’m going to make history.

Fifth gear. Fourth. Third, and lean.

My body lies flat, my bike flexing under ruthless speed and gravity
pulling it further down. It takes

everything I have to stifle the primal fear that wants to creep in,
screaming how I’m going to crash and

die because I’m going too fast to hold it. There’s too much speed, too
much weight, and the laws of

physics don’t mean crap, because they don’t exist.

I swallow the lies and bury them under the truth: even though
looming death is on my left, my body

is caught in the middle of a love-and-war affair between gravity and

centrifugal force, and it’s the

only place I want to be. But when I lean harder into the turn,
Massimo’s blue chassis and front tire are

all I can see around the curve, blocking my view of the finish line.
And I’m sick of him taking my

finish line.

His right knee is closer to my helmet than my own gloves, the space
between us growing

dangerously closer. When I check, I’m clear to move: there’s at least

a four-second gap between us
and the rest of the field.

See ya, sucker…

With the first hint of victory swirling through me, I let off the
accelerator so I can duck around

behind Massimo. He should push dangerously right, but the jerk

slows down with me. I curse in my

helmet and speed up, over the games and ready to secure my win.
He stays with me, then starts to drift

outside and directly into my left knee and elbow. He’s out of the apex
and taking me with him.

I’m already calculating my options, none of them good. Once again,

he’s risking my win, my bike,

and my life. It’s crap like this that made me realize it doesn’t matter
how intoxicating his smile is. The

cold truth is we both need to win more than anything else, and if he’s
going for the kill every chance

he gets, so am I.

I can’t afford to downshift into second gear and lose any more speed
to get around him. Hard way it

is. Gritting my teeth, I hold the turn, my arms and abs bellowing in
anguish from the G forces, but I

refuse to cower. I won’t drift farther right and toward the gravel
bailout. I know I can hold it…

My heartbeat thuds in my ears, my breathing fast and increasing.

Blue paint and black tires are
inching closer to my bright red fairings, and survival instincts tell me
that if I don’t move over in the

next half second, he’s going to hit me and crash me out, and… Shit!

I let off the accelerator or risk losing it all, my engine slowing as I

careen right, my tires bumping

on the curbstone and the bike wobbling in the gravel. My breath

cascades into my lungs as I grapple

for control, my reflexes throwing a glance to my left to make sure I

won’t run over Massimo and kill

him. He should be sliding on the ground in front of me. Maybe

tumbling down the dark pavement.

There’s no way he held that turn at that speed when he was so far
out of the apex. Except when I look,

Massimo’s gone.

He’s just freaking gone.

A roar rises from the stands as my head whips forward, and blue
paint is meters ahead. He didn’t

crash, somehow pulling off that screwed-up apex without hitting the
gravel.

I swerve back onto the racetrack, my determination screaming as I

shift up fast from third gear to

fourth. Massimo’s transmission roars deep in sixth, and his helmet

peeks over his shoulder. When he

sees the space between us on the last straightaway, the asshole pops
a freaking wheelie as he takes the
win.

The stands explode, booming his name as green, white, and red flags
billow from every direction.

Television cameras rise on cranes as fireworks light up the night sky,

and I curse where no one but me

can hear it, soaring across the finish line behind him two seconds too
late.

Bye-bye, history. And first place.

***

I step down off the podium, squinting from the lights and my cheeks
hurting from smiling as I pump my

silver trophy in one hand and a bottle of champagne in the other. A

new wall of screams erupts from

the fans in the stadium, all shouting every translation of

congratulations while waving signs with my

name and picture and #77.

The whole place is a massive party waiting to explode. It always is

after the night race in Qatar: the

first Grand Prix of the nineteen-race circuit that takes us all over the
world from March to November.

There’s also nothing quite like the capital city of Doha—spicy desert
air, the hum of Arabic tickling

your veins as you sit in traffic, staring up at a skyline that beats New
York any freaking day of the
week. Especially at night, when the buildings are lit up so the world is
a neon rainbow reflected in

the Persian Gulf.

It’s a hell of an upgrade from my family’s ranch in Memphis, where

the horses are treated like kings

and farmhands come and go like seasonal allergies. But partying in

Doha isn’t an option for me when

my diet is on lockdown, I’ve got a plane to catch for the next race,
and really, I’m counting the

minutes till the cameras are off me so I can cry in private over my
first MotoPro loss.

Everyone expected me to win this one. Which I know because they

didn’t have a problem telling me

beforehand—my mom, my dad, even Billy King. The reigning World

Champion’s ankle is still healing

from his brush with a bull, and he whispered to me on our flight from
Memphis that I need to enjoy

every minute of Qatar. Because after that, he would be fine and was
coming for me. But taking

advantage of Billy being slow didn’t even matter when Massimo was
still too fast.

After one last wave, a smile and flirty wink to the crowd, I head
toward the door that leads to the

pit boxes where our crews will meet us. I tuck my trophy under my
arm to haul it open. But I get
knocked aside when Santos Saucedo brushes past me, whistling his
way down the hall with his third-

place trophy propped on his shoulder. Jerk.

I follow him into the hall, the sounds of the crowd and the stadium
disappearing behind the door.

Even though I shouldn’t, I drink deeply from my bottle of

champagne. I knew it wouldn’t be easy to be

a woman in the racing world. I certainly didn’t expect the guys to

take turns braiding my hair between

practice and qualifying sessions. But I never expected the ostracizing

to last all the way from the

Rookie Cups to MotoPro.

“Lulu,” an Italian accent drawls behind me, and I lengthen my strides

away from the worst of them.

It doesn’t do me any good. Two seconds later, I have Massimo in my

face. Then he drops to his knees.

My patience is already nil and quickly creeping into the negative as

Massimo smiles up at me with

his arms outstretched, the champagne we sprayed on the podium still

sparkling in his black hair:

shaved brutally short on the sides, long and thick on top, and all
slicked back in that weird Italian

bouffant thing.

He’s been wearing the same bad haircut since we were fifteen, and I
refuse to tell him. It’s the best
running joke I can think of. Although it’d probably be a lot funnier if
he didn’t pull the look off so

well, balanced against the controlled stubble darkening his cheeks

and nearly black around the line of

his jaw.

Taryn swears I called him “damn hot” one night when she and I went
swimming in a bottle of

tequila. But I have no memory of saying that, and I’m betting she
made it up just to mess with me. She

knows that is not—and never will be—an option.

“Marry me, Lorina,” Massimo says in his thick Italian accent. I roll my
eyes, so not in the mood for

his crap right now. This is no less than the fifth time he’s done this.
Usually, he’s drunk, but

sometimes, his wins pull out his proposals. Like beating me to the
flag is the way to get me to the

altar. Yeah, okay. “Today is the best day of my life. Marry me.”

I shrug, wondering if there’s a path of least resistance here that I

haven’t tried before. “Yeah, all

right.”

His smile stretches wider. “Sì?”

“No!”

I walk around him, but he’s back in an instant. Guess that didn’t
work. “Why are you always so
difficult, Tigrotta?” He leans closer, whispering, “You know you love
me.”

I elbow him out of my personal space, tucking my trophy under my

arm and turning to face him. He’s

still freaking smiling as I jam my finger into the front of his leathers.
The plate underneath protecting

his lungs and ribs is like a block of cement, and I wonder if his heart
beneath is made out of the same

stuff. “How could you do that to me today? I don’t care what the win
is. We aren’t supposed to try to

hurt each other.”

His dark eyes flash and burn a little more fiercely, a dangerous smile
curving his lips. Like that’s

supposed to scare me. “No?”

I push my finger harder into his chest even though it makes my

knuckle ache and he probably can’t

even feel it. “No.” Of all the people I figured would wager a win
against my life and still dive for the

flag, I never expected it from him. He knows what it’s cost me to be

here, how hard I’ve had to fight

to be on the grid beside him. “You crossed the line, Massimo.”

He swallows, but he doesn’t apologize. He never has, whether I

deserved to hear his “Mi dispiace”

or not. I grit out a frustrated huff and storm around him. I’m barely
past his shoulder when he snatches
my hand, tugging me back into his chest.

My eyes fly wide, adrenaline from the race still pumping strongly in
my veins and surging even

faster at the regret sinking the corner of his mouth. I check around
for anyone else in the hallway who

could report to the world that one of Moto Grand Prix’s most talked
about rivalries filters a little

differently behind closed doors. But luckily, or maybe not, we’re

completely alone.

Massimo’s grip on my hand loosens to just a gentle press of his palm

covering mine, keeping the

back of my hand flat against his leathers. It’s too much—how close
he is, how his eyes seem to peer

straight through me and see it’s not the loss making my eyes want to
prickle with betrayal. It’s the fact

that he thought five points were worth me possibly ending up broken

in the hospital, never able to

race again.

Stay focused, Hargrove.

“Well?” I do my best to keep my voice steady under the intensity of

his stare, his bottle of

champagne dangling forgotten in his other hand and his trophy gone,
possibly on the floor. “Are you

going to apologize to me or not?”

“You want me to apologize for crossing a line? Sì, it is true. I did,
Lorina, and I will not lie to you

and say I did not.”

His grip on my hand tightens, and my eyes drop to where he has

them secured against his chest. His

personally crafted version of my first name isn’t new, nor is the

softness in my chest when he says it.

But when he leans forward to whisper in my ear, his lips are so close
that I can almost feel his

stubble scrape my cheek, and I’m no longer the fearless moto racer
from fifteen minutes ago. I am

now completely frozen.

Talking is one thing. Whispering, alone, while he’s holding my hand,

is another.

“I crossed the line,” he breathes, and a shiver I’m not proud of

trembles through me. “I crossed the

finish line, first.”

I reel back, my gaze narrowed as Massimo puckers a kiss at me. I

snatch my hand away from him,

Massimo throwing his head back in laughter as he turns, striding

down the rest of the hallway. Once

he’s a few steps away, I pick up the tattered shreds of my dignity and
stuff them back into my racing

boots, carrying me down the hall behind him.

I should be used to it by now: his jokes that aren’t funny, his pranks
that only serve to piss me off.

But it still hurts.

As soon as we’re in pit lane, Massimo’s manager and crew rush over
to hug him while screaming

victory accolades in Italian. Basically treating him like the God’s gift to
racing he thinks he is. So he

won here at Qatar—big deal. There are eighteen races left in the
circuit, and the competition is far

from over.

Heading into my garage, I leave Massimo for where my own crew is

waiting by my bike. It helps a

lot that Billy and his younger brother, Mason—my Dabria teammate—
have left their own pit boxes

and are waiting to congratulate me. We may be competitors on

Sundays, but Billy and Mason

stumbled into their racing careers as farmhands on my mom’s ranch.

So it’s kinda nice to have their

country accents around when we’re traveling in Europe so much.

“Lori, gimme some sugar, girl!” our manager, Frank, bellows before
he runs over to wrap me in a

hug, even though I probably smell like pure Pennzoil.

When I pull back, I give him a sweet smile as I hand him my trophy.
“You know your old gut can’t
handle no sugar.”

Frank bursts out laughing as he drops a kiss to my forehead. He

turns to the King brothers and my

other crew members, already busy passing around my trophy.

“Hell of a race, Lorelai,” Billy says in a drawl that’s thicker than my

leathers. He tips his Yaalon-

covered cowboy hat at me before he ducks off to a corner of my pit

box, his cell phone permanently

pressed to his ear. He’s been that way ever since he and Taryn got
back together, but at least she

seems happier. For now.

“He isn’t kidding,” Mason adds, holding out his hand. I clasp it in
mine, my teammate’s crystal-blue

eyes still alive from the battle on the track that landed him in fifth
place to my second. He pulls me in

for a bro hug, the only one who ever does, reeking of sweat and
cologne over the faintest trace of

whiskey. “Hope no one breaks the news to Massimo that we’re still
getting the kinks worked out of

the engines.”

I laugh, loving the way he thinks, and I lean back to point at him. “I
won’t say a word if you don’t.”

Mason scrunches up his face at me under his cowboy hat, the picture
of innocence. “A word about
what?” He winks and lets me go, probably to go bug his brother. Fine
by me. There’s one other hug I

need before we head home to Memphis for the two long weeks
before we race in Argentina.

Nudging my way past my constructor and crew, I head for my bike

and our customary postrace

ritual. I squeeze her tight, petting her fairings and thanking her for
keeping me safe until an

unmistakable whistle catches my attention.

I rise and turn to find Massimo leaning against the open door of my
garage, the strangest look on his

face like he wants to try to smile, to talk to me again, but can’t

decide whether he should. I’d almost

bet my bike it’s because even though he just messed with me, the
truth is, he’s not-so-secretly worried

about the damage the near hit caused to our already strained
relationship.

He’d never admit it, but he really can’t seem to stay away from me.
Which wouldn’t be the worst

thing in the world except that he also doesn’t know how to apologize
for the crap he does. He’s

probably never apologized for anything in his life.

The part that kills me is that as angry as I get, I can’t really claim any
innocence in this situation.
I’ve gone after him too. Attacked him too. Even though there have
been so many times when I thought

there could be something more between us than just rivalry. At the

very least, I wondered if somehow,

someday, we could be friends.

“All right, Lori,” Frank says, shaking hands with my crew. “You about
ready to hit the road, girl? I

need to get you and Billy and Mason to the airport. Oh,” he adds,
“Taryn called to say, and I quote,

‘Way to go, bitch.’”

I snort at my best friend’s message, wondering when she hung up

with Billy long enough to leave it

for me. But I can’t seem to muster more of a response than that.
Because without saying anything,

Massimo sets down a clean, white towel at the entrance to my

garage. When he straightens, dark eyes

locked with mine, I cross my arms and stand a little taller. It’s not the
apology I want, not by a long

shot, but it’ll do for now.

The smile he was restraining breaks free, and with nothing more, he
turns and heads the other

direction, leaving me to wonder what words would have come from

him if we were alone instead of

surrounded by the watchful eyes of hundreds of thousands of fans,

on top of the ever-nosy press.
Mostly because the younger, naive part of me wants to hold close the
idea that this silent, private

ritual—the clean white cotton, soft, carefully folded, and laid at my

door—is the safest language in

which he can communicate that he’d never try to hurt me. However,
the twenty-five-year-old

professional racer me says I also don’t need him to tell me to brush

myself off and keep going. Not to

get discouraged just because today, he beat me to the checkered

flag.

I’ve been doing this as long as he has, and I don’t need his help.

Frank’s massive barbecue-filled frame knocks into me, shaking me

into awareness. I chuckle as his

arm comes around my shoulders, squeezing tight. “You okay?”

I nod absently. But really, I’m still wondering if Massimo’s white towel
of truce would carry the

scent of him. That familiar spicy sweetness of exhaust and that stuff
he puts in his hair. The aroma

that’s never been far and I’m drawn to breathe more deeply than I
should… It’s as comforting as a

promise from my crew, as familiar as a scolding from my conscience.

“Yep,” I tell Frank. “Just thinking about that apex in sixteen.” And
whether Massimo would’ve had

nightmares about me dying on the way to the hospital if he’d crashed

me out. The way I did when he
wrecked in the Netherlands last year.

“Aw, don’t sweat it, Lori. You’ll get it next time.” Frank winks, then
hollers over my shoulder,

“Boys, hit the showers.” He gives me another pardoning smile,

steering us out of the garages and

toward our respective RVs so we can at least shower and change

before we leave for the airport.

“Yeah, honey,” Billy rumbles a few feet behind me. “Should be home
soon, in plenty of time to

make your dad’s work thing. Oh yeah? What’d he do—Taryn! Stop

letting Dax do that. I don’t care.

It’s my horse, Dax is a hired hand, and I made it very clear that
Gidget— carrots?”

“Uh-oh,” Mason mutters, snickering.

As Billy keeps whining on the phone about his beloved stallion, I

glance over my shoulder at my

bike, like I always do when I have to leave her between cities. At that
towel, left where Massimo laid

it.

It was only six weeks after the Netherlands that Massimo came back
to the circuit following his

biggest wreck to date, and the nightmares eventually stopped. I’ve

come back after my own crashes,

and I’m sure I would’ve even if I had crashed today. The extra weight
of my chest and back plates on
my body, the restriction of my elbow and knee sliders, and the
imprint on my chin from the strap of my

helmet say so.

But after all the races, all the close calls, and all the times I’ve
challenged him…

After all the almosts and all the fights, all the times when I’ve
wondered and hoped and had those

dreams come crashing down…

After ten years of racing against Massimo, I have to accept the truth:
it’s too late for anything to

change.

GRAND PRIX OF QATAR

Doha, Sunday, March 10

Pos

Pts

Rider

Time

World Rank

25

Massimo VITOLO

42’36.634
25

20

Lorelai HARGROVE

+2.169

20

16

Santos SAUCEDO

+4.976

16

13

Billy KING

+5.865

13

11

Mason KING

+7.138
11

10

Cristiano ARELLANO

+9.653

10

Giovanni MARCHESA

+11.223

Elliston LAMBIRTH

+11.598

Harleigh ELIN

+12.214
7

10

Deven HORSLEY

+13.365

11

Gregorio PAREDES

+14.732

12

Aurelio LOGGIA

+17.998

13

Fredek SULZBACH

+18.244
Another random document with
no related content on Scribd:
one thing is still needed, and that is money. It is for the French
Government to ask for it, and for the French Parliament to grant it.
Certain there be who deliberately oppose French colonial expansion;
with them discussion is impossible. I do not try to convince them, for
they are already proved to be in the wrong.
There are, however, others, noble and loyal Frenchmen, who
stigmatize as sterile all the efforts we make beyond seas to add to
the possessions of our native country. “What,” they urge, “you talk of
wholesale emigration, when the population of France is by no means
increasing!”
This is, after all, only a specious argument. Who speaks of
advising expatriation en masse to Frenchmen for the sake of
peopling distant countries? All the colonies suitable for peopling
have already been appropriated by our English rivals. Australia was
the last of them.
With regard, however, to colonies for exploration, it is quite a
different matter. And with the fullest conviction of my soul, I say
France ought to acquire such colonies. Through them alone will she
recover her commercial ascendency, which has been so seriously
jeopardized; through them alone will her social position become
assured.
Take, for instance, some child, the son of a workman or farmer: he
goes to the school of his quarter or village. Intelligent and
hardworking, he soon wins the affection of his teacher. “Work,” says
that teacher; “to every one the reward is sure, according to his
merits. Think of Pasteur, the son of a workman, to whom all Europe
renders homage.”
Believing what he is told, the child works on. At first the State
fulfils the promises made through the lips of the master. The teacher
has spoken to the inspector of his protégé, the rector bestirs himself
in the matter, the minister even intervenes, encouragement and
money aid alike are lavished upon the young fellow. His zeal
increases, he redoubles his application, he passes all the
examinations and gets all the honours possible, till the University has
no more to teach. Teacher, rector, minister, all justly pride
themselves in having done their duty by him.

MEDAL OF THE FRENCH SOCIETY FOR THE ADVANCEMENT OF

SCIENCE.

Then the son of the workman begins his life in the world.
Oh, how changed is everything to him now! Knowledge and
industry are much, it is true, but there are still two applicants for
every post, for every social function, and it is always the weaker, the
less skilful, or rather perhaps the less fortunate, who goes to the
wall.
The State has no other situation to offer him, and there is a
regular glut of brain-workers already in commerce and in
manufacture. Still it is necessary to eat to live.
It is easy to say “go back to the workshop or the plough,” but it is
against human nature to do so; the cultivated brain, the matured
intelligence, need the intellectual food to which they have become
accustomed. The hands are too soft and delicate now for manual
labour, nor are the muscles strong enough for it.
One more embittered, discontented, unfortunate man has been
produced, that is all, and who knows but that to-morrow he may
astonish the world by some attempted crime or act of folly, the result
of his despair, perhaps even of actual hunger?
 Am I making excuses for an anarchist? By no means. I have but
proved the necessity of French colonial expansion in colonies of
exploration.
If we wish to turn our distant possessions to account, the criminal
of yesterday, the dangerous member of society, might go there, and
in directing industrial or commercial enterprises find legitimate
employment and a fair return for all his intelligent efforts and for the
work and study of his youth.
There is plenty of labour to be obtained out there, for it is only the
natives, of whatever tribe or colour, whose temperament is hostile to
manual work.
More than that, these very natives who are now in a degraded
state of barbarism, if taught by intelligent Europeans, would soon
rise above their present condition to more of an equality with their
instructors. Not only would the young man of whom I have been
speaking live a happy life; not only would he win riches for himself
and add to the wealth of his native country, but he would also aid in
bringing about what, in my opinion, is the noblest of all possible
ambitions, the amelioration of the lot of his fellow-creatures, for to
make them better and happier is to share in the work of God Himself.
So logical is this reasoning, that my only wonder is why those who
have the good of humanity at heart have not thought of it before
myself.
Is not our French Sudan just such a fertile colony as is well suited
for playing a part in what I may call the future social policy of
France? I can answer that question in a very few words.
 MEDAL OF THE ‘SOCIETÉ D’ALLIANCE FRANÇAISE.’

I have visited the lower course of the river, with the districts under
the control of the Royal Niger Company, and I can confidently assert
that except for palm-oil, which is only to be obtained on the
seaboard, none of the exports, gum, india-rubber, ivory, and above
all, karité, are wanting in the French Sudan. In fact, we have all
these things in greater quantities than the English, without counting
the products peculiar to our districts, but unknown at the mouth of
the river.
Let us then make that railway, and make it quickly. Do not let us
waste any more time talking about it; do not let us turn aside for any
other projects, and when some 373 miles of iron road unite some
622 miles of the navigable Senegal, with no less than 1056 miles of
the Niger, all alike fit to be navigated by our boats, we shall have a
second Algeria, larger and richer than the first. The mind can
scarcely grasp the idea of the new source of fortune to be opened to
France by a thing so simple as this, a thing in which the Belgians
have been beforehand with us—the construction of a railway.
Stanley was right when he said Africa would belong to the first who
should lay down a line of railway through it.[12]
This will bring us to Ansongo. Are we to let it be the limit of our
zone of trading operations? No, certainly not; and this brings me to a
second result won by our expedition: the opening of relations with
the Awellimiden.
 I have constituted myself the defender of the Tuaregs. I have
shown them to be less cruel, less traitorous, less hostile to progress
than they are generally said to be. It is for the reader to judge
whether the adventures I have related do or do not prove my
impressions to have been correct.
One thing, however, I must stipulate, and that is: if we let months
or years slip by without improving the relations opened with the
Tuaregs of the Niger by further contact with them, we shall find them
more difficult to deal with, more suspicious, altogether less
accessible than we did during our stay in their country.
As I have already said, the Azgueurs were in our hands after the
journey of Duveyrier. Ikhenukhen, their great chief, who was
honoured and obeyed by them, was our friend. When the treaty of
Rhâdames was made, we said to them, “We want to go to the Sudan
by way of Aïr: you will guide us, you will protect our traders, you will
hire your camels to us, and you will find it to your profit to do so.”
A Tuareg proverb says, “You should never promise more than half
what you mean to perform.”
The Azgueurs of course expected our caravans to arrive, and they
are still expecting them. Gradually, however, they are beginning to
doubt us. “What,” they are saying, “did those Frenchmen, who
seemed so anxious to trade in our country, come to do here?” When
this question is put to a Tuareg, he will answer immediately, “They
came to spy; they were the spies of a great army, which will come to
take away our liberty and our independence.”
 MEDAL OF THE LYONS GEOGRAPHICAL SOCIETY.

In the English of Tripoli and their agent, the Kaimakhan of

Rhâdames, they would have advisers, who would increase their
suspicions of us. Little by little the sympathy the Tuaregs had felt for
us would give way to dread of us. Ikhenukhen is dead now, the
Sahara is closed to us, more completely closed than when Duveyrier
visited it, or when Barth and Richardson crossed it.
If we are equally negligent with the Awellimiden, we shall obtain
equally melancholy results.
If only an opposite policy could be pursued, how different
everything would be!
Whilst waiting for that iron road, and alas! its completion is very
far off! the only means of transit—bearing in mind the impossibility of
navigating the second section of the river—is to employ the
comparatively cheap and easily obtained ships of the desert, the
ugly but useful camels.
Now the camels all belong to the Tuaregs, generally to their Imrad
tribes.
Let us imagine that the railway is completed, that boats brought
up in sections to Kolikoro have been put together there, and are
going down the river as far as Gao, boats sufficiently well armed to
make the French respected, and of sufficient tonnage to carry
merchandise; we should at once have either at Gao or somewhere
else in its neighbourhood, a centre, so to speak, of transit, to which
the Tuaregs could bring their animals to be laden, and acting as
convoys to our caravans, would be most useful auxiliaries to the
French traders.
Do not let any one urge against this the pillaging instincts of the
Tuaregs. To begin with, it is in our power, if necessary, to destroy, or
at least to insist, upon the removal elsewhere, of the riveraine negro
villages, an excellent way of keeping the natives in awe, for we
should then have it in our power to avenge ourselves efficaciously on
them in case of their hostility, for it is from these riveraine districts
that they obtain the grain which is their only food.
I assert, however, that it would never be necessary to proceed to
such extremities as that.
The Tuaregs are alike too intelligent and avaricious of gain to risk
raids, the result of which would be uncertain, when merely letting out
their camels on hire would bring them in alike a greater and a surer
profit.
By doing as I suggest, the old route from Gao to Lake Tchad, one
of the most ancient in Northern Africa, could be reopened. This
route, bearing as it does in the direction of Gober and Aïr, and
skirting the Sahara, as it were in the rear, might in the end be made
to connect the French Sudan with Algeria and Tunis.
To achieve this I repeat we must not give the marabouts, who are
badly disposed towards the French, time to destroy our work before
it is fairly begun; we must not by too long a delay, awake once more
the suspicions of the Awellimiden, which are always easily aroused.
I do not pretend to say that any immediate profits would result
from the course I advocate. Skins, wool, and gum are all too heavy
to make it worth while to export them by difficult and costly modes of
transport from Timbuktu to Kolikoro, and from Kolikoro to Diubeba,
where ends at the present moment the railway from the Senegal to
the Niger.
 MEDAL OF THE MARSEILLES GEOGRAPHICAL SOCIETY.

It is, however, absolutely necessary to pave the way for traffic

even at the cost of a temporary loss, so that it may be in full swing
from the very day of the completion of the railway, when steamers
will begin to ply on the navigable portion of the Niger.
On that day our hydrographical map, which is so far the chief
result of our expedition, will find its use!
Was our stay at Say a profitable one? The future alone can
decide.
I do think, however, that at least our gentle and benevolent
behaviour to the peaceable natives, to the tillers of the soil, the
Koyraberos, must, however obtuse their intelligence, have proved to
them that these French infidels, these Kaffirs, as they called us, were
not really exactly what their marabouts told them we were: ferocious
beasts.
Moreover, our establishing ourselves in our island, and our stay at
Fort Archinard, in spite of the prohibition of our enemy, Amadu
Cheiku, under his very eyes, as it were, and in spite of all his
satellites could do, all his vain intrigues against us, must surely have
weakened his influence and his prestige.
We could not possibly have done more than we did with the very
small force at our command, and in view of the instructions we had
received to maintain the pacific character of our expedition,
instructions, alas! which to the end remained incomplete, and were
very different from what I had hoped they would be.
With regard to the Lower Niger it is best to be silent. There is far
too much competition there with other European nations, and it
would only lessen the effect of the results we had been able to
obtain, whether those results were great or small, to publish what
they were. It is for diplomacy to deal with them, bearing in mind that
our rivals know on occasion how to act with what I may call quite a
special bad geographical faith, which is not, however, any longer
effective, since we have now reconnoitred and examined the districts
in dispute.
I may add that we also brought back with us a few collections, and
what was, as it appears to me, a most important point, the results of
as careful a study as possible of the different dialects spoken in the
river districts.
There is nothing which gains the confidence of the natives more
than to be able to speak, or even to jabber, their language. The
effect on the Tuaregs especially is immense when they find that a
European can say a few phrases in Tamschenk, and a very great
stride has been made towards a good understanding when those
sentences have been pronounced.

MEDAL OF THE CHER GEOGRAPHICAL SOCIETY.

 Whatever may be the results of our journey, I should be guilty of
the grossest ingratitude if I concluded my account of our adventures
in any other way than by thanking all the devoted companions who
helped me to bring it to a successful conclusion.
Our negroes, those brave Senagalese, whom we have watched at
their work so long, who were so devoted, so French, who so blindly
followed the chief whose service they had entered, had held their
own lives cheap, and now shared with us the proud sense of duty
accomplished.
Then above all, our thanks are due to my friends Baudry, Bluzet,
Taburet, and Father Hacquart. We were going back now to civilized
life, perhaps to disperse to the four corners of the earth, but a bond
had been formed between us which nothing will ever break. As for
me, that bond was made up chiefly of loving gratitude, for to them is
due the fact that I was able to keep my oath made when Davoust
died, to serve my country and to increase the extent of the future
possessions of France.
 NATIVES OF SANSAN HAUSSA.

Thanks too must be given to those who aided me by their

influence, their encouragement, and their contributions, no matter
how small. As my readers have seen, the beginning of the
hydrographical expedition I commanded was set about with many
difficulties, and I can honestly assert that I suffered far more
personally just because of my zeal for the task I had undertaken; a
task which when completed would extend the area of our colonial
possessions and make them better known, which would add to the
wealth and the power of my native country. Yes, I suffered more than
if I had been a bad officer, caring little about his duty.
I wish I could say that at least all was changed on my return, but
truth compels me to add that there were certain notable exceptions
to the general sympathy with me, and the general kindness of the
reception given to me.
 GRAND MEDAL OF THE PARIS SOCIETY OF COMMERCIAL
GEOGRAPHY.

But never mind, the sense of having done one’s duty is worth
more than anything else.
It is to you, dear friends, dear companions on the Niger, that I add
—“Let people say what they will; a hundred years hence many things
and many men will be forgotten, but for all that, it will be as true then
as it is now, that our hydrographical expedition was the first to
descend the Niger, the first to explore its course from Kolikoro to the
sea.”
A French sailor, Francis Garnier by name, on his way to Tonquin,
which he had to aid in conquering, and where he was to end his
days, wrote to his mother describing all the difficulties he would have
to contend with, adding, “But I do not mind, mother dear. Forward,
for the sake of old France!”
For ourselves, and for those who are to come after us in Africa or
elsewhere, I too close my narrative with the same words. “Forward,
for the sake of old France!”
 THE Course of the river Niger from Timbuktu to Bussa.
Reduced from the Original Surveys made by the Hourst Expedition.

(Large-size)
 INDEX

Abd el Kader, Arab name of Hourst, 90, 191, 196, 309

Abder Rhaman, a chief, 142, 144
Abdu, 285-288, 293
Abdul Dori, 65, 66, 78, 98
Abdulaye, a carpenter, 96, 189, 287, 319, 320, 335, 364, 370, 399, 496
Abdulaye Dem, Tierno, 41, 70, 84, 95, 96, 157, 196, 286, 338, 352, 353, 367,
397, 416
Abdul Bubakar, 329
Abdul Kerim, 88-90, 101, 103, 124, 146, 153, 154, 168, 174, 184, 191
Abegga, 484, 485
Abiddin, 75, 81, 101-108, 114, 118, 120, 121, 135, 140, 141
Abo, 350, 488, 490, 491
Abu, 147
Achur, 125
Adria, 158
Agata, a village, 135, 136
Aghades, 352
Agibu, 373
Agony, 358
Agoult, Naval Lieutenant, 456, 487, 491
Ahmadu Mumi, 280, 386, 387, 389
Ahmady Mody, 318, 338
Air, 176, 202, 207, 243, 247, 505, 507
Ajacin, 443
Akassa, 452, 488, 493
Algeria, 49, 129, 144, 201, 228, 242, 247, 504, 507
Algiers, 228
Ali, 306
Aliburi, 282, 310, 313, 320, 388
Alif, 118
Alimsar, 240, 241, 426
Alkori, 204
Al Walidj, 104
Amacher, 202, 222
Amadi, 79, 80
Amadu, a guide, 436-439, 442-445, 456, 457, 468
Amadu Cheiku, 37, 181, 271, 274, 280, 283, 290, 291, 307, 312-317, 372, 384,
508
Amadu Lobbo Cissé, a chief, 78
Amadu Saturu or Modibo, 285, 286, 288, 290-292, 299, 326, 347, 359, 361,
365-368, 373, 378, 382-387, 388-391
Amiru of Torodi, 313
Amrar, 178, 244
Ansars, 208
Ansel Makkoren, 144
Ansongo, 99, 100, 165, 181-184, 188, 192, 269, 368, 369, 373, 498, 499, 504
Arabu, 310, 364
Archinard, General, 37, 284, 298, 299, 500
Ardent, The, 452, 492
Ardos of Massina, 316
Argungu, 412, 421
Arhlal, 101
Armas, the, or Romas, 144, 168, 208, 209, 216, 217
Aron, Lieutenant, 491, 492, 494
Askia, 165, 167, 193, 207, 316
Assaba, 487-490
Atakor n’Ahaggar, 202, 207, 243
Atchino, 331, 358, 399
Attanoux, 84, 160, 172
Aube, 30, 495
Aube, The, 52, 59, 60, 94, 99, 123, 146, 147, 156, 186, 188, 193, 251, 255,
256, 258, 260, 275-277, 299, 304, 338, 357, 358, 459, 463, 467-469, 494
Auru, 265, 368, 369, 438, 449, 464, 466, 467, 470, 472, 474, 479, 485
Aussa, Igwadaren, the, 90, 131
Autel Makhoren, 134
Awellimiden, the, 88, 104-106, 120, 129-131, 136, 148, 152, 167, 170, 173,
174, 176, 177, 181, 195, 196, 201, 203, 204, 209, 217, 219, 231, 236, 238,
240, 241, 243, 246, 247, 271, 315, 379, 426, 504, 506, 507
Azemay, 277
Azgueurs, the, 160, 172, 197, 201, 248, 504

Baba Hamet, 80, 146, 177

Badjibo or Guadjibo, 470
Bafing, a stream, 7, 42
Bafulabé, 7, 34, 38, 42
Bakel, 27, 30
Bakhoy, the, 7, 39, 42
Balia, 180, 181
Ballot, Governor, 33
Bamako, 52, 289, 405
Bamana Dankun, 71
Bamba, 136, 148
Bambara, 60, 62, 68, 71, 281, 351, 411
Bandiagara, 65, 288, 290, 363, 364, 367, 371, 372
Bargu, The, 475, 477
Baror, a rock, 149, 155
Barth, Dr. Henry, 1, 2, 10, 75, 88, 89, 101, 124, 129, 142, 149, 152, 156, 165,
166, 179, 180, 184-186, 194, 201, 240, 251, 357, 367, 484, 485, 505
Baruba, 142
Baud, 32, 33, 285, 286, 423, 427
Baudry, Lieutenant, 14, 17, 20, 21, 23, 28, 32, 34, 36-39, 41, 64, 94, 97, 100,
132, 160, 182, 188, 197, 254-257, 261, 302, 323, 335, 337, 352, 353, 364,
371, 399, 421, 468, 469, 485, 498, 510
Baye Hamet, 80, 146, 177
Beba, 182
Bechir Uld Mbirikat, 88, 118
Beckay Uld Ama Lamine, 75, 76
Bedda of Ida, 228
Belle or Bellates, 215, 216, 251
Benin, 493
Beni-Omia, law of, 236-238
Bentia, the Biting of Barth, 194
Benuë, 479, 481, 483
Berber, 203, 204
Bidda, 437, 476, 488
Bikini, 405
Bilali Cumba, a coolie, 29
Bilinga, 375
Bina, Ali, 47
Biskra, 78
Bluzet, Lieutenant, 37-41, 44, 45, 64, 94, 97, 100, 158, 290, 303, 304, 325,
340, 353, 354, 374, 408, 469, 510
Bobo, 282
Bokar Ahmidu Collado, 372
Boker Wandieïdu, 218, 252, 269-271
Bolard, Léon, 19, 20, 38
Bonnier, Colonel, 30, 118, 218
Bori, 100
Bornu, 179
Bozos, the, 316, 351, 354
Brass, 488, 493
Brazil, The, 21, 23
Brid’oison, M., 352
Brière de l’Isle, 24
Brière de l’Isle, The, 27, 30
Bubakar-Singo, 28, 39
Bubodji, 406
Burdane, 202
Buré, an island, 189, 191
Burgu, 408, 420, 423, 455
Burrem, 98, 100
Burrum, 10, 160, 165, 413
Bussa, 5, 289, 303, 408, 425, 431, 433, 434, 437, 439, 440, 443-449, 451, 452,
454, 459, 462, 470, 472, 474, 479, 481, 498, 499
Bussuma, 373

Caillé, René, 75
Cape Verd, 21
Carnot, M., 176
Caron, 8, 33, 41, 309
Carrol, Captain, 473, 475, 476, 486, 487, 490
Cayor, 23, 24, 282, 319, 364, 388
Chalor, a rock, 149
Chambas, the, 204, 248
Charenton, 435
Chaudié, M., Governor-General, 37, 496
Chautemps, M., Colonial Minister, 37
Cheibatan, the, 240, 242
Cherbourg, 22
Colbert, 5
Congo, the, 36
Conquet, 399

Dafins, the, 274

Dahomey, 32, 33, 96, 289, 290, 331, 358, 399, 474, 496
Dakar, 21, 25, 87
Damels, 23
Dantec, The, 52, 95, 99, 156, 188, 254-256, 260, 357, 463, 465, 468, 469, 492,
494
Davoust, Naval Lieutenant, 7, 10, 34, 427, 439, 495, 510
Davoust, The, 11, 13, 21, 23, 28, 29, 34, 38, 41, 44, 59, 60, 65, 93, 99, 112,
117, 146, 149, 156, 178, 193, 194, 250, 255, 256, 259, 263, 277, 300, 306,
370, 459, 465, 469, 494, 495
Day, 93
Dē, 367
Debo, Lake, 74, 78, 140, 298, 334, 405
De Brazza, 482
Decœur, 32, 33, 286, 358, 423, 436
Delcassé, M., 6, 7, 10
Dendi, 317, 377, 404, 406, 409, 411, 413, 414, 417, 419, 423, 446
Dendikobes, the, 377
Dentchendu, 385, 391, 421
Dergona, 179, 180, 181
Desa, 268
Desbordes, 500
Destenaves, Captain, 34, 39, 65, 66
Diafara, 373
Diamu, 97, 337
Diena, 35
Digui or Samba Amadi, 39, 41, 95, 197, 255, 256, 259-261, 264, 267, 275, 317,
318, 329, 369, 376, 381, 399, 407, 442, 454, 459, 460, 462, 463, 465, 467,
486, 496
Diko, 153
Diubeba, 42, 507
Diulas, the, 330
Djamarata, 368, 379
Djanaru, 316
Djerma, 385-389, 421
Djermakoy, 384, 385, 421
Djermankobes, 298, 313, 325
Djidjima, 442
Djitafe, 81
Djula, 375
Dodds, General, 358
Dongoe, 148, 149, 218
Dori, 65, 66, 243, 312, 368, 373
Dosso, 389
Drew, Mr., 474, 475, 481, 485, 486, 490
Duentza, 312
Dunga, 280-284, 300, 312, 382, 387, 397
Dungu, 313, 315
Duveyrier, 197, 201, 243-245, 248, 504, 505

Ebener, Colonel, 33
Eguedeche, 145, 146
El Abaker, 208
El Hadj Omar, 75, 76, 79, 129, 313, 314, 316, 386, 397
El Khotab, 154, 168, 170, 240
El Mekki, 182, 183, 186, 270, 271
El Sirat, 272
El Waghdu, 124
El Yacin, 178, 219
Emir el Munemin, 308, 314