Into Africa Page 6
“The attack was sudden, and Dr. Livingstone had time to overpower those who faced him, and was struggling to reload when cut down from behind. I fear the story is true, and that we shall never know more of its details.”
There were several aspects of the tragedy that Kirk's letter failed to mention. For instance, the poignant reaction to Livingstone's demise from the hardened citizens of Zanzibar: A period of mourning began immediately. All international vessels in port, the various foreign consulates, and even the Sultan of Zanzibar lowered their flags to half-mast.
Less poignant was Musa's behavior. After expressing his deep sadness about Livingstone's death, Musa began badgering Kirk and Consul George Seward to pay the Johanna men for their time in Livingstone's employ. They had worked six hard months for the quirky explorer, he argued, breaking trail along the Rovuma River and putting themselves in harm's way when Livingstone insisted on traveling through the Mazitu's territory. Since Livingstone was a British Consul to the tribes of Africa and had sometimes flown his consular Union Jack, Musa insisted the British Government pay them what was rightfully theirs.
Kirk, the same man who had traveled as expedition botanist on Livingstone's Zambezi journey, and Seward proceeded cautiously. It seemed strange to them that the only survivors were Johannas. Before sending the news back to London, they conducted a thorough investigation into the murder. For three long weeks Seward and Kirk cross-examined the Johannas, listening for inconsistent stories, trying to trip them on their own words.
Not a single story matched. Some Johannas said Livingstone was hunting elephants with some local villagers at dawn, others said he was simply exploring, and the death occurred at noon. Some Johannas swore they hid in the bushes during the attack, while others stated they'd been told to return to the village for supplies. Some said Livingstone shot one man, others said two. However, the stories weren't that different from one another, either. And specific details jibed with known facts: the order and manner of a Livingstone caravan on the march (a detail Kirk knew firsthand), and that Livingstone's route took him around Lake Nyassa's northern shore, a path he'd announced to Seward before leaving Zanzibar.
It finally came down to motive. Why would the Johannas risk criminal penalties for desertion and insubordination in Zanzibar unless they were telling the truth? No salary was worth that risk. As Christmas 1866 drew near, Ali Musa and the Johannas were shipped home without payment. But even as the Sultan of Johanna stepped forth to demand that his subjects receive the monies due them for their invaluable service to Great Britain, Seward and Kirk came to the conclusion Livingstone was dead.
Seward, a physician from Edinburgh who had become Livingstone's good friend during the explorer's stay in Zanzibar, wrote to the Foreign Office with the news. He ordered Kirk to pass on the news to the Royal Geographical Society. It was the day after Christmas 1866. Kirk wanted the news to arrive as soon as possible so he wrote two letters. One was sent via Atlantic mail ship. The other traveled by way of the Red Sea—Mauritius to Aden across the Suez peninsula by train. Both reached the RGS two months later. “If this cruel intelligence should be substantiated,” Murchison wrote the Times in the letter that aroused E. D. Young's fury on March 7, 1867, “the civilized world will mourn the loss of as noble and lion-hearted an explorer as ever lived.”
The people of Britain were mortified by the loss of Livingstone, and also the manner in which he died. The savagery of the Zulus was well known. An infamous, true tale still haunted British society—that of a group of South African colonists who were killed by thick wooden stakes driven into their hearts via their rectums. Of course, in Livingstone's case, without a body it was impossible to verify the specifics of his death, but there was little argument he was gone. Seward and Kirk's investigation made it clear that after decades of Livingstone's wandering through Africa unscathed, his luck had run out in spectacular fashion.
More germane to the rage E. D. Young felt as he read the news aboard Osborne was his personal knowledge of Musa's character. Young, a thirty-five-year-old who held the rank of warrant officer, had served with Livingstone's Zambezi expedition between January 1862 and March 1864. He piloted Pioneer, the second of three steel steamboats Livingstone used to navigate the Zambezi delta. In Young's opinion Ali Musa and the Johannas were nothing but thieves, layabouts, and liars. It was his belief that the Johannas abandoned Livingstone because the exploration had become too rugged, then concocted the story about Livingstone's death to collect their pay.
Young was a thin, impulsive man. As a boy he had voluntarily joined the Royal Navy, a career infamous for its brutality, sodomy, and squalid living conditions. Most men didn't volunteer for such a life. Rather, they were coerced into service by groups of sailors roaming seaside towns, plying young men with drink, hitting them over the head, or just clapping them in irons, then carrying them onto a ship. Young, however, enjoyed navy life. During his twenty years of service he worked his way up through the ranks to become a gunner and warrant officer. It was while serving as gunner on Gorgon, a supply ship plying the Mozambique Channel, that he first met Livingstone in 1860. Young admired the explorer so greatly he resigned his hard-won commission in 1862 to serve on board Pioneer. Initially, Livingstone had doubts about the sailor's character, suspicious that Young's overzealous work ethic was an attempt to coerce him into paying extra wages. But over time Young earned Livingstone's trust and became a mainstay of the Zambezi expedition. “The Pioneer,” Livingstone journaled on June 16, 1863, as he struck out for an overland segment of his exploration, “was left in charge of our active and most trustworthy gunner, Mr. Edward Young, R.N.”
The time with Livingstone was a boon to Young's naval career, which he resumed upon returning to England. The plush billet as Osborne's gunner was tangible evidence—the position was almost honorary, for armament on Osborne was negligible. He'd been there two years. His Africa tan had been replaced by the ruddy pallor synonymous with life in windblown Portsmouth. Her Majesty's yacht was a far cry from life aboard Pioneer, where uniforms were washed in muddy water, food was whatever could be fished from the river or purchased from waterfront tribes, and “the reed fringe of the river, weariness, and the monotonous hum of the mosquito” passed for ambience.
Though the high temperature in Portsmouth was just thirty-four degrees the day Young read of Livingstone's alleged murder, every other facet of serving aboard Osborne was quite comfortable. The ship docked silently, with all commands unspoken. The decks were always polished. Young was immaculately dressed every day, tucking his uniform jumper smartly into his starched trousers. He ate hot food at regular hours and quaffed a daily rum ration. Busy, blustery, nautical Portsmouth, the home of the Royal Navy, with its sailors' pubs and “gunny bunny” gunners' groupies, was just a train ride from a good social weekend in London. There was even an offbeat charm to life aboard Osborne, one found nowhere else in the Royal Navy: It was no secret that Osborne had a preponderance of homosexual sailors—nicknamed the “screaming queens” by other members of the Royal Navy. A regular highlight of shipboard life was the “Sods Opera” cabarets performed by the queens in full drag. Their performances were lively and polished, and a sight seen nowhere else on the high seas.
Young, however, was willing to give up the luxury, prestige, and hijinks for the sake of an outlandish scheme gathering momentum in the back of his mind: The gunner wanted to go to Africa and lead a search and rescue expedition to find Livingstone. Young's plan focused on following aquatic paths to the interior. A small group of dedicated searchers and a sturdy boat were all he would need. “To take a large force of men into the country, even a boat's crew from a man o' war, much less a gunboat, was out of the question,” he later noted.
Young planned to follow the Zambezi inland from the coast, having learned that massive river well in his years piloting for Livingstone. He was familiar with its eddies and sandbars, side channels, cataracts, gusting easterly winds, and the inevitable late afternoon downpours. The Zambezi w
as far wider and more easily navigable than the swampy, crocodile-infested Rovuma Livingstone had followed inland to start his source expedition, with more villages along the shore where he could trade for food. From the Zambezi he would make a right turn into the narrower Shire, which he would follow upriver until entering Lake Nyassa, through its southern egress. Upon reaching Lake Nyassa, Young planned to travel from village to village around the shoreline, questioning tribes about a white man who might have passed through. He would learn for certain whether the explorer was dead or alive. Young needed to know the truth. He could not stomach the maudlin limbo of doubt.
One major obstacle, among others, stood in Young's way: The very notion of a search for a lost explorer was outrageous. When they went missing, they stayed missing. With one notable exception, British exploration had been this way for centuries. In the earliest days of exploration, when traveling over a hill from one valley into another was an act of daring, finding a lost explorer wasn't difficult. But once explorers began trekking thousands of miles from home, or sailing hundreds of miles over the horizon just to find the earth's limit, rescue was not an option. Searching for overdue explorers would represent a physical hardship akin to exploration itself; the sheer breadth of the globe and slow pace of communications would render the task like finding a needle in a haystack.
The notable exception was Sir John Franklin. The year was 1845. Franklin was sixty, a robust white-haired veteran Arctic explorer, leading an expedition through the ice-floes north of Canada in search of the Northwest Passage. In July of that year, typically a hospitable month for Arctic exploration, Franklin disappeared.
Under normal circumstances, the progression of public status for a lost expedition went from “overdue” to “missing” to “presumed dead.” Memorial services were held, and statues might be erected to honor the fallen heroes. Franklin, however, was rich, with an adoring wife and Sir Roderick Murchison for a friend. Murchison leveraged his personal and political connections to continue the search after all was thought lost. “He never ceased to stimulate public interest in the matter by the most urgent and moving appeals,” marveled Indian explorer Sir Henry Rawlinson. Thanks to Murchison's zeal and Lady Jane Franklin's hopes, thirty-two ships took part in various searches by the time Franklin's death was confirmed in 1859.
Ironically, Livingstone and Lady Jane Franklin met in late 1865, when he stopped in Bombay en route to Africa for the source expedition. He was emblematic of exploration, she of lost explorers. A year later, Livingstone was in the process of assuming both mantles.
Young, unlike Lady Franklin, couldn't finance a search. Based on the rigid social delineations of Victorian England, Young was considered lower class, a broad stratum including all except the wealthy. Typically, a member of the lower class would never mingle with members of the upper class. But Livingstone—also lower class—was an inspiration in that regard. He represented a newly developing middle class in England, living proof that a man could bridge the void between upper and lower class through achievement and bravado. As Young's ruminations about Livingstone's alleged murder grew more intense, and as his certainty that Musa was lying became set in stone, he knew such a societal leap was the only way to prove Livingstone was alive.
On March 13, 1867, a week after the Times announced the murder, Young boldly composed a letter to Murchison on a small sheet of stationery.
“Sir,” the note began. Young's script was taut, nervous. “Having seen this sad intelligence of the murder of Dr. Livingstone, I beg you will pardon the liberty I take in writing to you on this subject. First, I must inform you that I served upward of two years in the Zambezi expedition under Dr. Livingstone, being in charge of the Pioneer steamer under his orders, during which time I had a very good experience of Johanna men, having had twelve of them in the crew of the Pioneer. And Sir, I can confidently assert that, at all times, and under all circumstances, there was not the slightest dependence to be placed on them, more especially as far as the truth was concerned, added to which they were great thieves.
“I have, therefore, great reason to hope that their story respecting the murder of the Doctor will prove a mere fabrication, more especially if they brought nothing belonging to him, for they well know the value of books or papers, etc., which the Mazitu do not.
“I have the honor to be, Sir, your very obedient servant.”
Young signed his name and mailed the letter. The “E” in his signature looked like a “G” and his name would appear in the Times incorrectly. Regardless, the angry note launched the humble, eager gunner on the improbable odyssey that would define his life.
In writing to Murchison, Young found an unlikely ally. Not only had Murchison led efforts to find Franklin, he had sent relief money to Speke and Grant when they were overdue during their Nile journey. And like Young, Murchison doubted Livingstone's death, even as the old Africa hands Kirk and Sir Samuel Baker were pronouncing the explorer dead and buried.
Murchison passed Young's letter along to the Times, then summoned the sailor to London. When Young boldly put forth his offer to lead a search party, Murchison was delighted. “Doubt,” Murchison agreed with Young, “was not to be endured.”
Preparations began in earnest. Even as the papers continued to run proof Livingstone was dead—including an April 6 piece telling of a follow-up investigation by Consul Seward—Murchison's connections and verve shot the search expedition quickly from concept to reality. By May, Young was named commander of the Livingstone Search Expedition and received permission from the Admiralty to take leave from Osborne. Thanks to Murchison's intercession and Livingstone's fame, the Government offered Young ten times the necessary funding for his far-fetched quest, and encouraged him to “use every available means to secure success.”
Young wasn't lavish with the money, but he didn't hesitate to spend it on the one vital aspect of his plan: a steel river boat. Search wasn't much to look at, just an open boat thirty feet long and eight feet wide, but she was ideal for the Zambezi and Shire. There was a mast to hoist a sail and oarlocks for paddling when the wind was dead. She drew just eighteen inches of water. And while the thirty-eight pieces of elastic steel Search was constructed from would be blazing hot to the touch under the African sun, she could also be completely disassembled. Porters could carry her up and around the journey's pivotal portage past a thirty-five-mile-long series of waterfalls and rapids on the Shire. Those cataracts, which Livingstone had named Murchison Falls, were the major obstacle between the Zambezi and Lake Nyassa.
As commander, Young also had carte blanche for personnel selection. He invited three trusted friends to join his grand quest. It was a brilliant idea, ensuring that camaraderie wouldn't be forced and Young's authority wouldn't be threatened by a power-hungry outsider. There was John Reid, who'd been ship's carpenter on Pioneer; Henry Faulkner, a former army officer with the 17th Lancers; and Patrick Buckley, a shipmate from Gorgon. Their expedition would be an adventure in the finest sense, just a few friends sallying into the wilds, attempting a goal beyond the ken of ordinary men.
As the departure date drew near, the expedition became a symbol of hope to England. Four brave men given carte blanche to find Livingstone didn't guarantee anything, but it implied he just might be alive. This was important. When the nation was demoralized by the slaughter of her young men in the Crimean War between 1854 and 1856, it was Livingstone's walk across Africa that made her stand tall again. And when England was devastated by the news that Indian nationals had slaughtered innocent British men, women, and children in the Punjab in 1857, it was Livingstone's triumphs that provided a diversion. And again, when social division and widespread unemployment during the 1850s sparked unrest and sapped British morale, it was Livingstone who stepped forth as their lion. He was more than just an explorer, he was a symbol of the potential greatness lying within each man, but tapped only by those willing to push beyond the limits of comfort and fear. In a smaller manner, Young had become such a source of hope.
/> There was, however, a double edge to the hope. A considerable sum of money had been spent to outfit the expedition. Expectations were getting so high that people were losing sight of the hard fact that locating Livingstone would be a miracle (as Murchison noted, “the scheme would be stigmatized as the Livingstone Utopian Search”). He was a lone man in the middle of a vast continent. It had been a year since he'd even been seen alive, and stories of his demise seemed disturbingly plausible. If the rumor was false, a year would have also offered ample opportunity for Livingstone to put a few thousand miles between himself and civilization. So if Young was sincere about finding Livingstone, that might mean abandoning Search and beginning an overland expedition—a task for which he wasn't prepared.
On June 10, Young and his expedition sailed from Portsmouth aboard the mail ship Celt. By July, just four short months since his letter to Murchison, Young's expedition had traveled to Africa, launched Search, and prepared to sail up the Zambezi delta. If all went well, he and the men had arranged to be picked up at the delta's mouth by a British warship on December 2 for the cruise home.
The journey up the Zambezi was like a homecoming for Young. The fourth largest river in Africa, the Zambezi also ranks as one of the largest in the world. The delta at its mouth is fifty miles wide, and the river itself is almost two miles across where it empties into the Indian Ocean. Livingstone had traveled almost every inch of the mighty river. The low-lying areas along its lush green banks were a breeding ground for malarial mosquitoes, tsetse flies, spiders, scorpions, and smallpox. Mary, Livingstone's wife, was buried along those banks, in the village of Shupanga, after she died in April 1862. Young had been at the funeral, and would stop to tend her grave on his quest to find her husband.