How I Found Livingstone, Henry M. Stanley [best fantasy books to read txt] 📗

was obdurate, and sternly

determined on war unless the Arabs aided him in the warfare he

was about to wage against old Mkasiwa, sultan of the Wanyamwezi

of Unyanyembe.

 

“This is the status of affairs,” said Khamis bin Abdullah.

“Mirambo says that for years he has been engaged in war against

the neighbouring Washensi and has come out of it victorious; he

says this is a great year with him; that he is going to fight

the Arabs, and the Wanyamwezi of Unyanyembe, and that he shall

not stop until every Arab is driven from Unyanyembe, and he rules

over this country in place of Mkasiwa. Children of Oman, shall

it be so? Speak, Salim, son of Sayf, shall we go to meet this

Mshensi (pagan) or shall we return to our island?”

 

A murmur of approbation followed the speech of Khamis bin Abdullah,

the majority of those present being young men eager to punish the

audacious Mirambo. Salim, the son of Sayf, an old patriarch, slow

of speech, tried to appease the passions of the young men, scions

of the aristocracy of Muscat and Muttrah, and Bedaweens of the

Desert, but Khamis’s bold words had made too deep an impression on

their minds.

 

Soud, the handsome Arab whom I have noticed already as the son of

Sayd the son of Majid, spoke: “My father used to tell me that he

remembered the days when the Arabs could go through the country

from Bagamoyo to Ujiji, and from Kilwa to Lunda, and from Usenga

to Uganda armed with canes. Those days are gone by. We have stood

the insolence of the Wagogo long enough. Swaruru of Usui just

takes from us whatever he wants; and now, here is Mirambo, who

says, after taking more than five bales of cloth as tribute from

one man, that no Arab caravan shall go to Ujiji, but over his body.

Are we prepared to give up the ivory of Ujiji, of Urundi, of

Karagwah, of Uganda, because of this one man? I say war—war

until we have got his beard under our feet—war until the whole of

Uyoweh and Wilyankuru is destroyed—war until we can again travel

through any part of the country with only our walking canes in

our hands!”

 

The universal assent that followed Send’s speech proved beyond

a doubt that we were about to have a war. I thought of

Livingstone. What if he were marching to Unyanyembe directly

into the war country?

 

Having found from the Arabs that they intended to finish the war

quickly—at most within fifteen days, as Uyoweh was only four

marches distant—I volunteered to accompany them, take my loaded

caravan with me as far as Mfuto, and there leave it in charge of

a few guards, and with the rest march on with the Arab army. And

my hope was, that it might be possible, after the defeat of Mirambo,

and his forest banditti—the RugaRuga—to take my Expedition direct

to Ujiji by the road now closed. The Arabs were sanguine of

victory, and I partook of their enthusiasm.

 

The council of war broke up. A great dishful of rice and curry,

in which almonds, citron, raisins, and currants were plentifully

mixed, was brought in, and it was wonderful how soon we forgot our

warlike fervor after our attention had been drawn to this royal

dish. I, of course, not being a Mohammedan, had a dish of my own,

of a similar composition, strengthened by platters containing

roast chicken, and kabobs, crullers, cakes, sweetbread, fruit,

glasses of sherbet and lemonade, dishes of gum-drops and Muscat

sweetmeats, dry raisins, prunes, and nuts. Certainly Khamis bin

Abdullah proved to me that if he had a warlike soul in him, he

could also attend to the cultivated tastes acquired under the shade

of the mangoes on his father’s estates in Zanzibar—the island.

 

After gorging ourselves on these uncommon dainties some of the

chief Arabs escorted me to other tembes of Tabora. When we went

to visit Mussoud bin Abdullah, he showed me the very ground where

Burton and Speke’s house stood—now pulled down and replaced

by his office—Sny bin Amer’s house was also torn down, and the

fashionable tembe of Unyanyembe, now in vogue, built over

it,—finely-carved rafters—huge carved doors, brass knockers,

and lofty airy rooms—a house built for defence and comfort.

 

The finest house in Unyanyembe belongs to Amram bin Mussoud,

who paid sixty frasilah of ivory—over $3,000—for it. Very fair

houses can be purchased for from twenty to thirty frasilah of

ivory. Amram’s house is called the “Two Seas”—“Baherein.” It is

one hundred feet in length, and twenty feet high, with walls four

feet thick, neatly plastered over with mud mortar. The great door

is a marvel of carving-work for Unyanyembe artisans. Each rafter

within is also carved with fine designs. Before the front of the

house is a young plantation of pomegranate trees, which flourish

here as if they were indigenous to the soil. A shadoof, such as

may be seen on the Nile, serves to draw water to irrigate the

gardens.

 

Towards evening we walked back to our own finely situated tembe in

Kwihara, well satisfied with what we had seen at Tabora. My men

drove a couple of oxen, and carried three sacks of native rice—a

most superior kind—the day’s presents of hospitality from Khamis

bin Abdullah.

 

In Unyanyembe I found the Livingstone caravan, which started off in

a fright from Bagamoyo upon the rumour that the English Consul was

coming. As all the caravans were now halted at Unyanyembe because

of the now approaching war, I suggested to Sayd bin Salim, that it

were better that the men of the Livingstone caravan should live

with mine in my tembe, that I might watch over the white man’s

goods. Sayd bin Salim agreed with me, and the men and goods were

at once brought to my tembe.

 

One day Asmani, who was now chief of Livingstone’s caravan, the

other having died of small-pox, two or three days before, brought

out a tent to the veranda where, I was sitting writing, and shewed

me a packet of letters, which to my surprise was marked:

 

“To Dr. Livingstone,

” Ujiji,

“November 1st, 1870.

 

” Registered letters.”

 

From November 1st, 1870, to February 10, 1871, just one hundred

days, at Bagamoyo! A miserable small caravan of thirty-three men

halting one hundred days at Bagamoyo, only twenty-five miles by

water from Zanzibar! Poor Livingstone! Who knows but he maybe

suffering for want of these very supplies that were detained so

long near the sea. The caravan arrived in Unyanyembe some time

about the middle of May. About the latter part of May the first

disturbances took place. Had this caravan arrived here in the

middle of March, or even the middle of April, they might have

travelled on to Ujiji without trouble.

 

On the 7th of July, about 2 P.M., I was sitting on the burzani as

usual; I felt listless and languid, and a drowsiness came over me;

I did not fall asleep, but the power of my limbs seemed to fail

me. Yet the brain was busy; all my life seemed passing in review

before me; when these retrospective scenes became serious, I

looked serious; when they were sorrowful, I wept hysterically;

when they were joyous, I laughed loudly. Reminiscences of

yet a young life’s battles and hard struggles came surging into

the mind in quick succession: events of boyhood, of youth, and

manhood; perils, travels, scenes, joys, and sorrows; loves and

hates; friendships and indifferences. My mind followed the

various and rapid transition of my life’s passages; it drew the

lengthy, erratic, sinuous lines of travel my footsteps had passed

over. If I had drawn them on the sandy floor, what enigmatical

problems they had been to those around me, and what plain,

readable, intelligent histories they had been to me!

 

The loveliest feature of all to me was the form of a noble, and

true man, who called me son. Of my life in the great pine forests

of Arkansas, and in Missouri, I retained the most vivid impressions.

The dreaming days I passed under the sighing pines on the Ouachita’s

shores; the new clearing, the block-house, our faithful black

servant, the forest deer, and the exuberant life I led, were

all well remembered. And I remembered how one day, after we had

come to live near the Mississipi, I floated down, down, hundreds of

miles, with a wild fraternity of knurly giants, the boatmen of

the Mississipi, and how a dear old man welcomed me back, as if

from the grave. I remembered also my travels on foot through

sunny Spain, and France, with numberless adventures in Asia Minor,

among Kurdish nomads. I remembered the battlefields of America

and the stormy scenes of rampant war. I remembered gold mines,

and broad prairies, Indian councils, and much experience in the

new western lands. I remembered the shock it gave me to hear

after my return from a barbarous country of the calamity that

had overtaken the fond man whom I called father, and the hot

fitful life that followed it. Stop! ************

 

Dear me; is it the 21st of July? Yes, Shaw informed me that it

was the 21st of July after I recovered from my terrible attack

of fever; the true date was the 14th of July, but I was not

aware that I had jumped a week, until I met Dr. Livingstone.

We two together examined the Nautical Almanack, which I brought

with me. We found that the Doctor was three weeks out of his

reckoning, and to my great surprise I was also one week out,

or one week ahead of the actual date. The mistake was made by

my being informed that I had been two weeks sick, and as the day

I recovered my senses was Friday, and Shaw and the people were

morally sure that I was in bed two weeks, I dated it on my Diary

the 21st of July. However, on the tenth day after the first of my

illness, I was in excellent trim again, only, however, to see and

attend to Shaw, who was in turn taken sick. By the 22nd July

Shaw was recovered, then Selim was prostrated, and groaned in his

delirium for four days, but by the 28th we were all recovered, and

were beginning to brighten up at the prospect of a diversion in the

shape of a march upon Mirambo’s stronghold.

 

The morning of the 29th I had fifty men loaded with bales, beads,

and wire, for Ujiji. When they were mustered for the march

outside the tembe, the only man absent was Bombay. While men were

sent to search for him, others departed to get one more look, and

one more embrace with their black Delilahs. Bombay was found some

time about 2 P.M., his face faithfully depicting the contending

passions under which he was labouring—sorrow at parting from the

fleshpots of Unyanyembe—regret at parting from his Dulcinea of

Tabora—to be, bereft of all enjoyment now, nothing but

marches—hard, long marches—to go to the war—to be killed,

perhaps, Oh! Inspired by such feelings, no wonder Bombay was

inclined to be pugnacious when I ordered him to his place, and I

was in a shocking bad temper for having been kept waiting from

8 A.M. to 2 P.M. for him. There was simply a word and a savage

look, and my cane was flying around Bombay’s shoulders, as if he

were to be annihilated. I fancy that the eager fury of my

onslaught broke his stubbornness more than anything else; for

before I had struck him a dozen times he was crying for “pardon.”

At that word I ceased belaboring him, for this was the first time

he had ever uttered that word. Bombay was conquered at last.

 

“March!” and the