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

prey; and our men were

considerably affected by these thoughts, if we may judge from

the hearty goodwill with which they rowed away from our late

encampment.

 

Arriving at Cape Kabogi, we came to the territory of the Wasansi.

We knew we were abreast of a different tribe by the greeting

“Moholo,” which a group of fishermen gave us; as that of the

Wavira was “Wake,” like that of Urundi, Usige, and Uhha.

 

We soon sighted Cape Luvumba—a sloping projection of a mountain

ridge which shot far into the lake. As a storm was brewing, we

steered for a snug little cove that appeared before a village;

and, drawing our canoe from the water, began to set the tent, and

make other preparations for passing the night.

 

As the natives appeared quiet and civil enough, we saw no reason

to suspect that they entertained any hostility to Arabs and

Wangwana. Accordingly we had our breakfast cooked, and as usual

laid down for an afternoon nap. I soon fell asleep, and was

dreaming away in my tent, in happy oblivion of the strife and

contention that had risen since I had gone to sleep, when I heard

a voice hailing me with, “Master, master! get up, quick. Here

is a fight going to begin!” I sprang up, and snatching my revolver

belt from the gun-stand, walked outside. Surely, there appeared to

be considerable animus between the several factions; between a

noisy, vindictive-looking set of natives of the one part, and our

people of the other part. Seven or eight of our people had taken

refuge behind the canoe, and had their loaded guns half pointing at

the passionate mob, which was momentarily increasing in numbers,

but I could not see the Doctor anywhere.

 

“Where is the Doctor?” I asked.

 

“He has gone over that hill, sir, with his compass,” said Selim.

 

“Anybody with him?”

 

“Susi and Chumah.”

 

“You, Bombay, send two men off to warn the Doctor, and tell him

to hurry up here.”

 

But just at this period the Doctor and his two men appeared on the

brow of the hill, looking down in a most complacent manner upon the

serio-comic scene that the little basin wherein we were encamped

presented. For, indeed, despite the serious aspect of it, there

was much that was comical blended with it—in a naked young man

who—perfectly drunk, barely able to stand on his feet—was beating

the ground with his only loin-cloth, screaming and storming away

like a madman; declaring by this, and by that, in his own choice

language, that no Mgwana or Arab should halt one moment on the

sacred soil of Usansi. His father, the Sultan, was as inebriated

as himself, though not quite so violent in his behaviour. In the

meantime the Doctor arrived upon the scene, and Selim had slipped

my Winchester rifle, with the magazine full of cartridges, into my

hand. The Doctor calmly asked what was the matter, and was

answered by the Wajiji guides that the people wished us to leave,

as they were on hostile terms with the Arabs, because the eldest

son of the Sultan of Muzimu, the large island nearly opposite, had

been beaten to death by a Baluch, named Khamis, at Ujiji, because

the young fellow had dared look into his harem, and ever since

peace had been broken between the Wasansi and Arabs.

 

After consulting with the guides, the Doctor and I came to the

conclusion that it were better that we should endeavour to pacify

the Sultan by a present, rather than take offence at a drunken boy’s

extravagant freak. In his insane fury he had attempted to slash at

one of my men with a billhook he carried. This had been taken as

a declaration of hostilities, and the soldiers were ready enough

to engage in war; but there was no necessity to commence fighting

with a drunken mob, who could have been cleared off the ground

with our revolvers alone had we desired it.

 

The Doctor, baring his arm, said to them that he was not a Mgwana,

or an Arab; but a white man; that Arabs and Wangwana had no such

colour as we had. We were white men, different people altogether

from those whom they were accustomed to see: that no black men

had ever suffered injury from white men. This seemed to produce

great effect, for after a little gentle persuasion the drunken

youth, and his no less inebriate sire, were induced to sit down

to talk quietly. In their conversation with us, they frequently

referred to Mombo, the son of Kisesa, Sultan of Muzimu, who was

brutally murdered. “Yes, brutally murdered!” they exclaimed

several times, in their own tongue; illustrating, by a faithful

pantomime, how the unfortunate youth had died.

 

Livingstone continued talking with them in a mild, paternal way,

and their loud protestations against Arab cruelty were about to

subside, when the old Sultan suddenly rose up and began to pace

about in an excited manner, and in one of his perambulations

deliberately slashed his leg with the sharp blade of his spear,

and then exclaimed that the Wangwana had wounded him!

 

At this cry one half of the mob hastily took to flight, but one

old woman, who carried a strong staff with a carved lizard’s body

on its top, commenced to abuse the chief with all the power of her

voluble tongue, charging him with a desire to have them all killed,

and other women joined in with her in advising him to be quiet,

and accept the present we were willing to give.

 

But it is evident that there was little needed to cause all men

present in that little hollow to begin a most sanguinary strife.

The gentle, patient bearing of the Doctor had more effect than

anything else in making all forbear bloodshed, while there was

left the least chance of an amicable settlement, and in the end

it prevailed. The Sultan and his son were both sent on their way

rejoicing.

 

While the Doctor conversed with them, and endeavoured to calm their

fierce passions, I had the tent struck, and the canoes launched,

and the baggage stowed, and when the negotiations had concluded

amicably, I begged the Doctor to jump into the boat, as this

apparent peace was simply a lull before a storm; besides, said I,

there are two or three cowardly creatures in the boat, who, in

case of another disturbance, would not scruple to leave both of us

here.

 

From Cape Luvumba, about 4.30 P.M. we commenced pulling across;

at 8 P.M. we were abreast of Cape Panza, the northern extremity

of the island of Muzimu; at 6 A.M. we were southward of Bikari,

and pulling for Mukungu, in Urundi, at which place we arrived at

10 A.M., having been seventeen hours and a half in crossing the

lake, which, computing at two miles an hour, may be said to be

thirty-five miles direct breadth, and a little more than

forty-three miles from Cape Luvumba.

 

On the 11th of December, after seven hours’ pulling, we arrived at

picturesque Zassi again; on the 12th, at the pretty cove of Niasanga;

and at 11 A.M. we had rounded past Bangwe, and Ujiji was before us.

 

We entered the port very quietly, without the usual firing of

guns, as we were short of powder and ball. As we landed, our

soldiers and the Arab magnates came to the water’s edge to greet

us.

 

Mabruki had a rich budget to relate to us, of what had occurred

during our absence. This faithful man, left behind in charge of

Livingstone’s house, had done most excellently. Kalulu had scalded

himself, and had a frightful raw sore on his chest in consequence.

Mabruki had locked up Marora in chains for wounding one of the

asses. Bilali, the stuttering coward, a bully of women, had

caused a tumult in the market-place, and had been sharply

belaboured with the stick by Mabruki. And, above all most

welcome, was a letter I received from the American Consul at

Zanzibar, dated June 11th, containing telegrams from Paris as late

as April 22nd of the same year! Poor Livingstone exclaimed, “And

I have none. What a pleasant thing it is to have a real and good

friend!”

 

Our voyage on the Tanganika had lasted twenty-eight days, during

which time we had traversed over 300 miles of water.

 

CHAPTER XIV. OUR JOURNEY FROM UJIJI TO UNYANYEMBE.

 

We felt quite at home when we sat down on our black bearskin, gay

Persian carpet and clean new mats, to rest with our backs to the

wall, sipping our tea with the air of comfortable men, and chat

over the incidents of the “picnic,” as Livingstone persisted in

calling our journey to the Rusizi. It seemed as if old times,

which we loved to recall, had come back again, though our house

was humble enough in its aspect, and our servants were only naked

barbarians; but it was near this house that I had met him—

Livingstone—after that eventful march from Unyanyembe; it was on

this same veranda that I listened to that wonderful story of his

about those far, enchanting regions west of the Lake Tanganika;

it was in this same spot that I first became acquainted with him;

and ever since my admiration has been growing for him, and I feel

elated when he informs me that he must go to Unyanyembe under my

escort, and at my expense. The old mud walls and the bare rafters,

and the ancient thatched roof, and this queer-looking old veranda,

will have an historical interest for me while I live, and so, while

I can, I have taken pains and immortalized the humble old building

by a sketch.

 

I have just said that my admiration for Livingstone has been

growing. This is true. The man that I was about to interview

so calmly and complacently, as I would interview any prominent

man with the view of specially delineating his nature, or detailing

his opinions, has conquered me. I had intended to interview him,

report in detail what he said, picture his life and his figure,

then bow him my “au revoir,” and march back. That he was specially

disagreeable and brusque in his manner, which would make me quarrel

with him immediately, was firmly fixed in my mind.

 

But Livingstone—true, noble Christian, generous-hearted, frank

man—acted like a hero, invited me to his house, said he was glad

to see me, and got well on purpose to prove the truth of his

statement, “You have brought new life unto me;” and when I fell

sick with the remittent fever, hovering between life and death,

he attended me like a father, and we have now been together for

more than a month.

 

Can you wonder, then, that I like this man, whose face is the

reflex of his nature, whose heart is essentially all goodness,

whose aims are so high, that I break out impetuously sometimes:

“But your family, Doctor, they would like to see you, oh! so much.

Let me tempt you to come home with me. I promise to carry you

every foot of the way to the coast. You shall have the finest

donkey to ride that is in Unyanyembe. Your wants—you have but

to hint them, and they shall be satisfied. Let the sources of

the Nile go—do you come home and rest; then, after a year’s rest,

and restored health, you can return and finish what you have to do.”

 

But ever the answer was, “No, I should like to see my family

very much indeed. My children’s letters affect me intensely;

but I must not go home; I must finish my task. It is only the

want of supplies that has detained me. I should have finished

the discovery of the