Into Africa Page 27
The scared porters argued quietly. Stanley wasn't likely to be coming back, they guessed. He would die for certain. Not even a massive man like Asmani could protect a fifty-four-man caravan if a tribal force of a thousand attacked. Deserting before the journey went on too much longer seemed almost prudent compared with becoming another set of bleached bones whose meat had been picked clean by hyenas.
Twenty porters ran off that night. Stanley found out the next morning when he rose, determined to ignore his illness and continue forward. He flew into a rage. Selecting twenty of his most faithful men, he dispatched them back to Tabora to round up the deserters. Selim the servant was also sent back to Tabora and told to buy a slave chain from the Arabs. “Toward night my twenty detectives returned with nine of the missing men,” Stanley wrote. “Selim also returned with a strong chain capable of imprisoning within the collars attached to it, ten men. Kaif-Halek also appeared with the letter bag which he was to convey to Livingstone under my escort. The men were then addressed, and the slave chain exhibited to them. I told them I was the first white man who had taken a slave chain with him on his travels. But, as they were all so frightened of accompanying me, I was obliged to make use of it, as it was the only means of keeping them together. The good never fear being chained by me—only the deserters, the thieves, who received their hire and presents and guns and ammunition and ran away.”
Nevertheless, two more men tested Stanley that night. After standing around in 108-degree heat the next day, waiting for Bombay to hunt down the deserters, Stanley had the men flogged and chained.
Morale in the camp plummeted fast in the few short days since leaving Tabora, and Stanley began losing control. Men begged Stanley to be released from their contracts. Some, like Kasegra Saleem, were released on grounds of sickness (Saleem was vomiting from one end and passing worms out the other). Another, Abdul the tailor, had been a burden since Bagamoyo. He was allowed to leave because Stanley had grown tired of his whining. Finally, Stanley wondered whether it was time to turn around and go back. “The fates had determined on our return,” he wrote.
But money, Livingstone, and potential glory were powerful stimulants, even in the heart of Africa. Stanley struggled on. When the caravan reached the village of Kigandu on September 24, four days into the trek, he was taunted by the natives for his refusal to fight Mirambo, and called a coward. The villagers demanded cloth in exchange for permission to pass through their territory. Stanley wouldn't pay, so he and his men were forced to sleep in an area a mile outside the village infested by rats. There, Shaw fell hard getting off his donkey, but was so weak from sleeping sickness that he simply dozed off where he hit the ground rather than rise to go to his tent.
Stanley looked at this friend and finally felt pity. “Do you wish to go back, Mr. Shaw?” he asked wearily.
“If you please,” Shaw replied. “I do not believe I can go any farther.”
“Well, Mr. Shaw, I have come to the conclusion that it is best that you should return. My patience is worn out.” Stanley warned Shaw that he would die if he returned to Tabora, for there would be no one to take care of him, but the sailor's mind was made up.
“I wish I had never ventured to come,” Shaw admitted. “I thought life in Africa was so different from this.”
The travelers' last night together was spent mournfully. Sitting around a campfire while Shaw played “Home Sweet Home” on a cheap accordion he'd carried since Zanzibar, they reveled in their friendship. “We had mutually softened toward each other,” Stanley finally admitted. He was sure Shaw would die, and it was mournful saying good-bye. Shaw, on the other hand, was planning on recovering and marching back to the coast. His heart was light. “Home Sweet Home” wasn't a lament, but anticipation.
The next morning, Stanley gave Shaw a canteen of tea, a leg of lamb, and a loaf of bread, then placed him in a litter to be carried back to Tabora. It would take two men to carry him. Their regular loads would be assumed by Shaw's donkey. Stanley ordered the trumpet sounded and the flags raised, then formed the men into two lines. His good friend was leaving, and he wanted it done in style. Like a dignitary passing in review, the sailor was carried between the two rows in a sign of respect and farewell. He and Stanley said a solemn good-bye, wishing each other well. Then Henry Morton Stanley and John William Shaw went in opposite directions to meet their fates. After all was said and done, their parting was a relief to Stanley, too. “Shaw was borne away to the north, while we fled to the south, with quicker and more elastic steps as if we felt a great incubus had been taken from us,” Stanley wrote.
Even before Shaw's departure Stanley had imagined what it would be like to emulate Livingstone in his travels. “With the illustrious example of Livingstone traveling by himself before me, I was asking myself, Would it not be just as well for me to try to do the same thing?”
Without Shaw, Stanley ignored his own weakened condition and fairly raced for Ujiji. His pace increased from one mile an hour to three. The journey was into its seventh month. In Stanley's mind, Livingstone was most definitely in Ujiji. He wasn't thinking beyond that. He couldn't. He barely had the resolve to make it to Ujiji. Finding the strength to go farther into Africa, or wander indefinitely searching for the good doctor, was unthinkable.
As it was, the new trail was a challenge unlike any other Stanley had faced so far. The danger of Africa had increased by increments since leaving Bagamoyo, but in the wilderness southwest of Tabora it was as if a Pandora's box of Africa's most violent hardships was opened. Clouds of tsetse and sword flies had the men constantly swatting the air and flapping their arms. The heat was relentless in its intensity, like a flame being applied to the men's skin. Rotting vegetation from the upa tree was poisonous when inhaled. Dead bodies of natives who had died of smallpox littered the side of the trail. Guerilla warriors roamed the countryside, and villages were fortified for war, surrounded by fences of three-inch-thick wooden poles lashed tightly together, with special platforms for sharpshooters to see over the top.
Yet in the hardship, Stanley knew a strange peace. Africa became him, despite its dangers. Stanley took a proprietary interest in Africa, and thought of the land as his own. “I felt momentarily proud,” he admitted in his journal after reveling in a “romantic” vista, “that I owned such a vast domain.”
He embraced that sense of ownership, and like the need to find Livingstone, it gave him courage. The porters were born and raised in Africa, yet were uncomfortable in the wilderness and pressed forward reluctantly. But Stanley basked in each day's march, and in the nuances of merely being in Africa. Unable to procure cigars, he had taken to smoking a white clay pipe at the end of each day to watch the sun set. “Colors of gold and silver, saffron and opal, when its rays and gorgeous tints were reflected upon the tops of the everlasting forest, with the quiet and holy calm of heaven,” he wrote of the sunsets.
In those hours, listening to the men smoking their gourd pipes around the campfire and listening to the chirp of crickets, Stanley also became anxious about Livingstone. “We are both on the same soil, perhaps in the same forest—who knows?—yet he is so far removed from me,” Stanley wrote.
The worries disappeared during the day, especially as in early October the thick forest gave way to a grassland where game of all variety waited to be felled for the cooking pot. On October 4 the expedition began a three-day halt along the Gombe River to hunt and regroup. After two weeks of travel, they had walked more than two hundred miles but were still unable to shake their fear of the land through which they were walking. That its beauty and providence were equal to its dangers made no difference. The men didn't like that Stanley's demand for a brisk pace left them exhausted at the end of each day.
Stanley hoped rest and fresh meat in their stomachs would rekindle morale. Buffalo, zebra, and antelope fed the caravan, and the porters were briefly happy. Stanley found himself conflicted by the killing, however. Fresh meat was a precious commodity, for protein was hard to come by on the trail.
But he marveled at the animals' beauty and majesty, and it pained him to shoot a zebra, then see it rear up on its hind legs in shock, then collapse and have its head sliced off by the natives. “Ah, it is such a pity. But hasten, draw the keen sharp-edged knife across the beautiful stripes which fold around the throat. And—what an ugly gash! It is done.”
Immediately after that particular kill, Stanley walked alone to the banks of the Gombe and stripped for a swim. He was in a pensive mood and wanted to be alone. The Gombe meandered slowly past, its waters green and languid. Lotus leaves floated on the surface and it reminded Stanley of something from a summer dream.
He relaxed as he stepped into the warm water. There wasn't an ounce of fat on his body anymore, just sinewy muscle. Stanley stretched, then brought his hands together in front of him to dive into the deep waters. “My attention was attracted by an enormously long body which shot into view, occupying the spot beneath the surface that I was about to explore. Great heavens, it was a crocodile!” he wrote that night. Africa had soothed him and calmed him and made him feel as if he were its master. But it was all a myth. The continent had no equal. He took the crocodile as a reminder to “never again be tempted by the treacherous calm.”
His heart racing, Stanley hastily grabbed his clothes and retreated from the river bank to dress. He walked back to camp slowly, composing himself, then ate a hearty meal of zebra steak as the moon rose. He hunted again the next day, and the next. By the time their three days had come to an end, Stanley and his men had killed two buffalo, two wild boars, a hartebeest, the zebra, an impala, and several birds. The bounty was so overwhelming that it couldn't all be eaten before breaking camp. Stanley selected a group of porters to cut and dry the uneaten meat for the miles ahead. The new guides, Asmani and Mabruki, foretold over one hundred miles of barren wilderness, where game would be hard to find and there were no villages for purchasing food. The crocodile encounter had been a grim reminder that Stanley needed to be prepared for anything. Loading up on food stores could save their lives.
On the morning of Saturday, October 7, the New York Herald expedition broke camp and prepared to leave the hunting ground behind. They faced three days of long marches to the southwest before turning north and making haste for Ujiji, which made the men deeply unhappy. They had reveled in their three-day rest and loathed the idea of pressing forward. They wanted to stay near the game one last day, continuing their hunting, feasting, and relaxation.
Just as the march was to begin, Bombay approached Stanley. He had been designated the group's spokesman and broke the news that the men refused to march. The short man was unafraid of Stanley and had shown it repeatedly throughout the journey by silently absorbing the lashings Stanley inflicted upon him with a dog whip.
Bombay requested an extra day of rest, and without hesitation, Stanley berated him for even broaching the subject. There would be no rest, he furiously stated. At that, Bombay's face, normally the picture of accommodation, turned mean. He shoved his lower lip out in a display of contempt then turned his back on Stanley and delivered the news to the men.
The entire camp watched them in silence. As Bombay walked off, Stanley barked for the horn to be blown, signaling the start of the march. More silence followed, though some of the men were obediently stooping down to pick up their loads. Asmani's voice wafted across the campsite, shouting to Mabruki that he was sorry he'd taken on the journey.
Insolently, angrily, the porters shouldered their loads and their bare feet padded down the trail. Fearing desertions, Stanley rode at the rear of the caravan when it finally got under way. Selim was nearby with a shotgun and pistols, should Stanley need them.
Only a mile later, the men threw their bales to the ground. The caravan lurched to a dead halt. The men formed into small groups and began arguing, as if contemplating something sinister. Stanley dismounted. “Taking my double-barrel gun from Selim's shoulder, I selected a dozen charges of buckshot and, slipping two of them into the barrels and adjusting my revolvers in order for handy work, I walked on toward them. I noticed that the men seized their guns as I advanced,” he wrote that evening.
The soldiers were there to protect Stanley, but there was no telling how they might behave after the falling-out with Bombay, who had hand-picked them for the job. The soldiers, however, had ceased being the center of Stanley's concerns. He spied two men trying to hide behind a set of earthen ramparts, but the hiding place was too small—their heads and the barrels of their guns stuck out. “Come forward and talk to me or I will blow your heads off,” Stanley shouted. He leveled his shotgun in their direction and took careful aim.
To Stanley's shock, Asmani and Mabruki rose and began walking toward him. Asmani smirked as he walked. The fingers of his right hand tickled the trigger of his rifle.
“Drop your gun or I will kill you instantly,” Stanley shouted.
Asmani dropped the gun, but his smirk remained. “His eyes shone the lurid light of murder,” Stanley noted, “as ever it shone in a villain's eyes.”
Stanley was almost a foot smaller than Asmani. He studied the guide's eyes and body language, looking for a sign of what would happen next.
Asmani gave nothing away. But behind Stanley came the sound of powder being carefully loaded into a musket. Stanley spun around with his gun chest-high, and was shocked to see that Mabruki had crept around behind him. Just four feet away, the guide was preparing to fire. “Drop your gun instantly,” Stanley demanded, then coolly reminded both men that his smooth bore could fire off twenty-four shots to their one.
As Mabruki complied, Stanley jabbed him hard in the sternum with his shotgun. Mabruki flew backward, buying Stanley the time to confront Asmani, who had bent down to retrieve his own gun. “Put the gun down,” Stanley ordered nervously, fingers on the trigger. Asmani would not. He slowly raised it toward Stanley's face.
Stanley was about to shoot—wanted to shoot, if only to set an example. If he couldn't intimidate Asmani, his power was ended. But just as he was about to fire, a soldier came from behind and knocked away the big man's gun. “How dare you point your gun at the master?” he demanded incredulously.
As if slapped in the face, Asmani realized his foolishness. He threw himself at Stanley's feet and began kissing them, then demanded that Mabruki apologize—which he did. Then Stanley had them both thrown in chains.
For good measure, Stanley beat Bombay about the shoulders with a spear. Stanley was becoming like Livingstone in so many positive ways—except his inability to treat subordinates with respect.
• CHAPTER 32 •
Kirk Learns the Truth
September 22, 1871
Zanzibar
John Kirk was in a state of panic. Messengers from the interior had just arrived, carrying newspaper dispatches written by Henry Morton Stanley. The American, it turned out, was more than a mere traveler; he was a journalist, and in search of Livingstone. American Consul F. R. Webb had gleefully shown Kirk portions of Stanley's initial dispatch. Stanley was reporting that war in Tabora had stopped all caravans—including Livingstone's relief supplies. Once word reached New York, then London, it was inevitable that blame for Livingstone not receiving his supplies would fall squarely upon Kirk. It was vital that the upstart diplomat proactively state his case.
“My Lord,” Kirk wrote to Foreign Secretary Earl Granville on September 22. “Letters just received by special messengers who left Unyayembe about a month ago, inform us of a sad disaster . . . I am indebted to Mr. Webb, the American Consul here, for some details related in those letters, which will, no doubt, be published in full elsewhere.”
Though Stanley's first story was a nuts and bolts preview of the actual expedition, detailing caravan logistics and apologizing for spending so much of Bennett's money, it was clear that Stanley was leaving no stone unturned. There was a very good chance Kirk's name would eventually make it into print for failure to expedite Livingstone's relief supplies. Even worse, however, was that Mirambo had just closed the trail to
Ujiji. Kirk knew that the supplies would have gotten through if he had been more proactive. In a second letter, written three days later, Kirk assured Sir Roderick Murchison there would be little chance of British embarrassment at the hands of Stanley. “His prospect of getting on is at present small,” Kirk wrote on September 25. “But I cannot really say where he desires to go to. He never disclosed his plans to me,” Kirk wrote. Then Kirk signed off by pleading, “Believe me.”
Unfortunately for Kirk, Murchison would never receive the letter. The Acting British Consul to Zanzibar would have to weather the Stanley crisis on his own.
• CHAPTER 33 •
The Valley of Death
October 7, 1871
South of the Malagarasi River
160 Miles to Livingstone
A little wild-eyed, a little weary, a little paranoid, Stanley was in control. The caravan moved forward. Above the treetops, hills could occasionally be seen on the horizon. When the caravan finally ascended the hills and carefully picked its way down the far side, Stanley noted pleasantly that the slopes were westward facing, and took it as a sign that Lake Tanganyika was getting closer. The vegetation changed from mere woodland trees to thick orchards of mbembu fruit, which tasted like a peach. Tamarind seeds and wild plums were abundant, as were game birds for the cooking pot. Only the sight of shiny, white human skulls adorning the gates of a local village detracted from the Eden-like atmosphere.
The terrain changed daily as they pushed farther off the beaten path: undulating plains pocked with brackish pools of water; steep mountains; marshes heavy with water, making every step a test of stamina. One forty-mile stretch was nothing but swamp, just like the Makata so many months before.