How I Found Livingstone - Henry M. Stanley (best ereader for comics txt) 📗

human

occupants of it—this was the time, after our day’s work was ended,

and the camp was in a state of perfect security, when we all would

produce our pipes, and could best enjoy the labors which we had

performed, and the contentment which follows a work well done.

 

Outside nothing is heard beyond the cry of a stray florican,

or guinea-fowl, which has lost her mate, or the hoarse croaking

of the frogs in the pool hard by, or the song of the crickets

which seems to lull the day to rest; inside our camp are heard

the gurgles of the gourd pipes as the men inhale the blue ether,

which I also love. I am contented and happy, stretched on my

carpet under the dome of living foliage, smoking my short

meerschaum, indulging in thoughts—despite the beauty of the still

grey light of the sky; and of the air of serenity which prevails

around—of home and friends in distant America, and these thoughts

soon change to my work—yet incomplete—to the man who to me is

yet a myth, who, for all I know, may be dead, or may be near or

far from me tramping through just such a forest, whose tops I

see bound the view outside my camp. We are both on the same soil,

perhaps in the same forest—who knows?—yet is he to me so far

removed that he might as well be in his own little cottage of Ulva.

Though I am even now ignorant of his very existence, yet I feel

a certain complacency, a certain satisfaction which would be

difficult to describe. Why is man so feeble, and weak, that he

must tramp, tramp hundreds of miles to satisfy the doubts his

impatient and uncurbed mind feels? Why cannot my form accompany

the bold flights of my mind and satisfy the craving I feel to

resolve the vexed question that ever rises to my lips—“Is he

alive?” O soul of mine, be patient, thou hast a felicitous

tranquillity, which other men might envy thee! Sufficient for

the hour is the consciousness thou hast that thy mission is a

holy one! Onward, and be hopeful!

 

Monday, the 2nd of October, found us traversing the forest and

plain that extends from the Ziwani to Manyara, which occupied us

six and a half hours. The sun was intensely hot; but the mtundu

and miombo trees grew at intervals, just enough to admit free

growth to each tree, while the blended foliage formed a grateful

shade. The path was clear and easy, the tamped and firm red soil

offered no obstructions. The only provocation we suffered was

from the attacks of the tsetse, or panga (sword) fly, which swarmed

here. We knew we were approaching an extensive habitat of game,

and we were constantly on the alert for any specimens that might

be inhabiting these forests.

 

While we were striding onward, at the rate of nearly three miles

an hour, the caravan I perceived sheered off from the road,

resuming it about fifty yards ahead of something on the road,

to which the attention of the men was directed. On coming up,

I found the object to be the dead body of a man, who had fallen

a victim to that fearful scourge of Africa, the small-pox.

He was one of Oseto’s gang of marauders, or guerillas, in the

service of Mkasiwa of Unyanyembe, who were hunting these forests

for the guerillas of Mirambo. They had been returning from

Ukonongo from a raid they had instituted against the Sultan

of Mbogo, and they had left their comrade to perish in the road.

He had apparently been only one day dead.

 

Apropos of this, it was a frequent thing with us to discover a

skeleton or a skull on the roadside. Almost every day we saw

one, sometimes two, of these relics of dead, and forgotten

humanity.

 

Shortly after this we emerged from the forest, and entered a

mbuga, or plain, in which we saw a couple of giraffes, whose long

necks were seen towering above a bush they had been nibbling at.

This sight was greeted with a shout; for we now knew we had

entered the game country, and that near the Gombe creek, or river,

where we intended to halt, we should see plenty of these animals.

 

A walk of three hours over this hot plain brought us to the

cultivated fields of Manyara. Arriving before the village-gate,

we were forbidden to enter, as the country was throughout in a

state of war, and it behoved them to be very careful of admitting

any party, lest the villagers might be compromised. We were, however,

directed to a khambi to the right of the village, near some pools

of clear water, where we discovered some half dozen ruined huts,

which looked very uncomfortable to tired people.

 

After we had built our camp, the kirangozi was furnished with some

cloths to purchase food from the village for the transit of a

wilderness in front of us, which was said to extend nine marches,

or 135 miles. He was informed that the Mtemi had strictly

prohibited his people from selling any grain whatever.

 

This evidently was a case wherein the exercise of a little

diplomacy could only be effective; because it would detain us

several days here, if we were compelled to send men back to Kikuru

for provisions. Opening a bale of choice goods, I selected two

royal cloths, and told Bombay to carry them to him, with the

compliments and friendship of the white man. The Sultan sulkily

refused them, and bade him return to the white man and tell him

not to bother him. Entreaties were of no avail, he would not

relent; and the men, in exceedingly bad temper, and hungry, were

obliged to go to bed supperless. The words of Njara, a slave-trader, and parasite of the great Sheikh bin Nasib, recurred to me.

“Ah, master, master, you will find the people will be too much

for you, and that you will have to return. The Wa-manyara are

bad, the Wakonongo are very bad, the Wazavira are the worst

of all. You have come to this country at a bad time. It

is war everywhere.” And, indeed, judging from the tenor of the

conversations around our camp-fires, it seemed but too evident.

There was every prospect of a general decamp of all my people.

However, I told them not to be discouraged; that I would get

food for them in the morning.

 

The bale of choice cloths was opened again next morning, and

four royal cloths were this time selected, and two dotis of Merikani,

and Bombay was again despatched, burdened with compliments, and

polite words.

 

It was necessary to be very politic with a man who was so surly,

and too powerful to make an enemy of. What if he made up his mind

to imitate the redoubtable Mirambo, King of Uyoweh! The effect of

my munificent liberality was soon seen in the abundance of provender

which came to my camp. Before an hour went by, there came boxes

full of choroko, beans, rice, matama or dourra, and Indian corn,

carried on the heads of a dozen villagers, and shortly after the

Mtemi himself came, followed by about thirty musketeers and

twenty spearmen, to visit the first white man ever seen on this

road. Behind these warriors came a liberal gift, fully equal in

value to that sent to him, of several large gourds of honey, fowls,

goats, and enough vetches and beans to supply my men with four

days’ food.

 

I met the chief at the gate of my camp, and bowing profoundly,

invited him to my tent, which I had arranged as well as my

circumstances would permit, for this reception. My Persian carpet

and bear skin were spread out, and a broad piece of bran-new

crimson cloth covered my kitanda, or bedstead.

 

The chief, a tall robust man, and his chieftains, were invited to

seat themselves. They cast a look of such gratified surprise at

myself, at my face, my clothes, and guns, as is almost impossible

to describe. They looked at me intently for a few seconds, and

then at each other, which ended in an uncontrollable burst of

laughter, and repeated snappings of the fingers. They spoke the

Kinyamwezi language, and my interpreter Maganga was requested to

inform the chief of the great delight I felt in seeing them.

After a short period expended in interchanging compliments,

and a competitive excellence at laughing at one another, their

chief desired me to show him my guns. The “sixteen-shooter,”

the Winchester rifle, elicited a thousand flattering observations

from the excited man; and the tiny deadly revolvers, whose beauty

and workmanship they thought were superhuman, evoked such

gratified eloquence that I was fain to try something else.

The double-barrelled guns fired with heavy charges of power,

caused them to jump up in affected alarm, and then to subside into

their seats convulsed with laughter. As the enthusiasm of my

guests increased, they seized each other’s index fingers, screwed

them, and pulled at them until I feared they would end in their

dislocation. After having explained to them the difference

between white men and Arabs, I pulled out my medicine chest,

which evoked another burst of rapturous sighs at the cunning

neatness of the array of vials. He asked what they meant.

 

“Dowa,” I replied sententiously, a word which may be

interpreted—medicine.

 

“Oh-h, oh-h,” they murmured admiringly. I succeeded, before long,

in winning unqualified admiration, and my superiority, compared to

the best of the Arabs they had seen, was but too evident. “Dowa,

dowa,” they added.

 

“Here,” said I, uncorking a vial of medicinal brandy, “is the

Kisungu pombe ” (white man’s beer); “take a spoonful and try

it,” at the same time handing it.

 

“Hacht, hacht, oh, hacht,! what! eh! what strong beer the

white men have! Oh, how my throat burns!”

 

“Ah, but it is good,” said I, “a little of it makes men feel

strong, and good; but too much of it makes men bad, and they die.”

 

“Let me have some,” said one of the chiefs; “and me,” ” and me,”

“and me,” as soon as each had tasted.

 

“I next produced a bottle of concentrated ammonia, which as I

explained was for snake bites, and headaches; the Sultan

immediately complained he had a headache, and must have a little.

Telling him to close his eyes, I suddenly uncorked the bottle, and

presented it to His Majesty’s nose. The effect was magical, for he

fell back as if shot, and such contortions as his features

underwent are indescribable. His chiefs roared with laughter,

and clapped their hands, pinched each other, snapped their fingers,

and committed many other ludicrous things. I verily believe if such

a scene were presented on any stage in the world the effect of it

would be visible instantaneously on the audience; that had they

seen it as I saw it, they would have laughed themselves to

hysteria and madness. Finally the Sultan recovered himself, great

tears rolling down his cheeks, and his features quivering with

laughter, then he slowly uttered the word “kali,”—hot, strong,

quick, or ardent medicine. He required no more, but the other

chiefs pushed forward to get one wee sniff, which they no sooner

had, than all went into paroxysms of uncontrollable laughter.

The entire morning was passed in this state visit, to the mutual

satisfaction of all concerned. “Oh,” said the Sultan at parting,

“these white men know everything, the Arabs are dirt compared to them!”

 

That night Hamdallah, one of the guides, deserted, carrying with

him his hire (27 doti), and a gun. It was useless to follow him

in the morning, as it would have detained me many more days than

I could afford; but I