How I Found Livingstone by Henry M. Stanley (read after .txt) 📖

the pea-bullets. What is wanted for this country is a heavy bore—No. 10

or 12 is the real bone-crusher—that will drop every animal shot

in its tracks, by which all fatigue and disappointment are avoided.

Several times during these two days was I disappointed after most

laborious stalking and creeping along the ground. Once I came

suddenly upon an eland while I had a Winchester rifle in my hand—

the eland and myself mutually astonished—at not more than

twenty-five yards apart. I fired at its chest, and bullet, true

to its aim, sped far into the internal parts, and the blood spouted

from the wound: in a few minutes he was far away, and I was too

much disappointed to follow him. All love of the chase seemed to be

dying away before these several mishaps. What were two antelopes

for one day’s sport to the thousands that browsed over the plain?

 

The animals taken to camp during our three days’ sport were two

buffaloes, two wild boar, three hartebeest, one zebra, and one

pallah; besides which, were shot eight guinea-fowls, three

florican, two fish-eagles, one pelican, and one of the men caught

a couple of large silurus fish. In the meantime the people had

cut, sliced, and dried this bounteous store of meat for our transit

through the long wilderness before us.

 

Saturday the 7th day of October, we broke up camp, to the great

regret of the meat-loving, gormandizing Wangwana. They delegated

Bombay early in the morning to speak to me, and entreat of me to

stop one day longer. It was ever the case; they had always an

unconquerable aversion to work, when in presence of meat. Bombay

was well scolded for bearing any such request to me after two

days’ rest, during which time they had been filled to repletion

with meat. And Bombay was by no means in the best of humour;

fleshpots full of meat were more to his taste than a constant

tramping, and its consequent fatigues. I saw his face settle into

sulky ugliness, and his great nether lip hanging down limp, which

meant as if expressed in so many words, “Well, get them to move

yourself, you wicked hard man! I shall not help you.”

 

An ominous silence followed my order to the kirangozi to sound the

horn, and the usual singing and chanting were not heard. The men

turned sullenly to their bales, and Asmani, the gigantic guide,

our fundi, was heard grumblingly to say he was sorry he had

engaged to guide me to the Tanganika. However, they started,

though reluctantly. I stayed behind with my gunbearers, to drive

the stragglers on. In about half an hour I sighted the caravan at

a dead stop, with the bales thrown on the ground, and the men

standing in groups conversing angrily and excitedly.

 

Taking my double-barrelled gun from Selim’s shoulder, I selected a

dozen charges of buck-shot, and slipping two of them into the

barrels, and adjusting my revolvers in order for handy work, I

walked on towards them. I noticed that the men seized their guns,

as I advanced. When within thirty yards of the groups, I

discovered the heads of two men appear above an anthill on my left,

with the barrels of their guns carelessly pointed toward the road.

 

I halted, threw the barrel of my gun into the hollow of the left

hand, and then, taking a deliberate aim at them, threatened to blow

their heads off if they did not come forward to talk to me. These

two men were, gigantic Asmani and his sworn companion Mabruki, the

guides of Sheikh bin Nasib. As it was dangerous not to comply

with such an order, they presently came, but, keeping my eye on

Asmani, I saw him move his fingers to the trigger of his gun, and

bring his gun to a “ready.” Again I lifted my gun, and threatened

him with instant death, if he did not drop his gun.

 

Asmani came on in a sidelong way with a smirking smile on his

face, but in his eyes shone the lurid light of murder, as plainly

as ever it shone in a villain’s eyes. Mabruki sneaked to my rear,

deliberately putting powder in the pan of his musket, but sweeping

the gun sharply round, I planted the muzzle of it at about two

feet from his wicked-looking face, and ordered him to drop his gun

instantly. He let it fall from his hand quickly, and giving him a

vigorous poke in the breast with my gun, which sent him reeling

away a few feet from me, I faced round to Asmani, and ordered him

to put his gun down, accompanying it with a nervous movement of my

gun, pressing gently on the trigger at the same time. Never was a

man nearer his death than was Asmani during those few moments. I

was reluctant to shed his blood, and I was willing to try all

possible means to avoid doing so; but if I did not succeed in

cowing this ruffian, authority was at an end. The truth was, they

feared to proceed further on the road, and the only possible way

of inducing them to move was by an overpowering force, and exercise

of my power and will in this instance, even though he might pay the

penalty of his disobedience with death. As I was beginning to feel

that Asmani had passed his last moment on earth, as he was lifting

his gun to his shoulder, a form came up from behind him, and swept

his gun aside with an impatient, nervous movement, and I heard

Mabruki Burton say in horror-struck accents:

 

“Man, how dare you point your gun, at the master?” Mabruki then

threw himself at my feet, and endeavoured to kiss them and

entreated me not to punish him. “It was all over now,” he said;

“there would be no more quarreling, they would all go as far as

the Tanganika, without any more noise; and Inshallah!” said he,

“we shall find the old Musungu * at Ujiji.”

 

*Livingstone

 

“Speak, men, freedmen, shall we not?—shall we not go to the

Tanganika without any more trouble? tell the master with one

voice.”

 

“Ay Wallah! Ay Wallah! Bana yango! Hamuna manneno mgini!”

which literally translated means, “Yes by God! Yes by God!

my master! There are no other words,” said each man loudly.

 

“Ask the master’s pardon, man, or go thy way,” said Mabruki

peremptorily, to Asmani: which Asmani did, to the gratification

of us all.

 

It remained for me only to extend a general pardon to all except

to Bombay and Ambari, the instigators of the mutiny, which was now

happily quelled. For Bombay could have by a word, as my captain,

nipped all manifestation of bad temper at the outset, had he been

so disposed. But no, Bombay was more averse to marching

than the cowardliest of his fellows, not because he was cowardly,

but because he loved indolence.

 

Again the word was given to march, and each man, with astonishing

alacrity, seized his load, and filed off quickly out of sight.

 

While on this subject, I may as well give here a sketch of each of

the principal men whose names must often appear in the following

chapters. According to rank, they consist of Bombay, Mabruki

Burton, Asmani the guide, Chowpereh, Ulimengo, Khamisi, Ambari,

Jumah, Ferajji the cook, Maganga the Mnyamwezi, Selim the Arab boy,

and youthful Kalulu a gunbearer.

 

Bombay has received an excellent character from Burton and Speke.

“Incarnation of honesty” Burton grandly terms him. The truth is,

Bombay was neither very honest nor very dishonest, i.e., he did

not venture to steal much. He sometimes contrived cunningly, as

he distributed the meat, to hide a very large share for his own use.

This peccadillo of his did not disturb me much; he deserved as

captain a larger share than the others. He required to be closely

watched, and when aware that this was the case, he seldom ventured

to appropriate more cloth than I would have freely given him,

had he asked for it. As a personal servant, or valet, he would

have been unexceptionable, but as a captain or jemadar over his

fellows, he was out of his proper sphere. It was too much

brain-work, and was too productive of anxiety to keep him in

order. At times he was helplessly imbecile in his movements,

forgot every order the moment it was given him, consistently

broke or lost some valuable article, was fond of argument, and

addicted to bluster. He thinks Hajji Abdullah one of the wickedest

white men born, because he saw him pick up men’s skulls and put

them in sacks, as if he was about to prepare a horrible medicine

with them. He wanted to know whether his former master had written

down all he himself did, and when told that Burton had not said

anything, in his books upon the Lake Regions, upon collecting

skulls at Kilwa, thought I would be doing a good work if I

published this important fact.* Bombay intends to make a

pilgrimage to visit Speke’s grave some day.

________________________

*I find upon returning to England, that Capt. Burton has informed

the world of this “wicked and abominable deed,” in his book upon

Zanzibar, and that the interesting collection may be seen at the

Royal College of Surgeons, London.

_________________________

 

Mabruki, “Ras-bukra Mabruki,” Bullheaded Mabruki, as Burton calls

him, is a sadly abused man in my opinion. Mabruki, though stupid,

is faithful. He is entirely out of his element as valet, he might

as well be clerk. As a watchman he is invaluable, as a second

captain or fundi, whose duty it is to bring up stragglers,

he is superexcellent. He is ugly and vain, but he is no coward.

 

Asmani the guide is a large fellow, standing over six feet, with

the neck and shoulders of a Hercules. Besides being guide, he is

a fundi, sometimes called Fundi Asmani, or hunter. A very

superstitious man, who takes great care of his gun, and talismanic

plaited cord, which he has dipped in the blood of all the animals

he has ever shot. He is afraid of lions, and will never venture

out where lions are known to be. All other animals he regards as

game, and is indefatigable in their pursuit. He is seldom seen

without an apologetic or a treacherous smile on his face. He could

draw a knife across a man’s throat and still smile.

 

Chowpereh is a sturdy short man of thirty or thereabouts; very

good-natured, and humorous. When Chowpereh speaks in his dry Mark

Twain style, the whole camp laughs. I never quarrel with Chowpereh,

never did quarrel with him. A kind word given to Chowpereh is sure

to be reciprocated with a good deed. He is the strongest, the

healthiest, the amiablest, the faithfulest of all. He is the

embodiment of a good follower.

 

Khamisi is a neat, cleanly boy of twenty, or thereabouts, active,

loud-voiced, a boaster, and the cowardliest of the cowardly. He

will steal at every opportunity. He clings to his gun most

affectionately; is always excessively anxious if a screw gets

loose, or if a flint will not strike fire, yet I doubt that he

would be able to fire his gun at an enemy from excessive

trembling. Khamisi would rather trust his safety to his feet,

which are small, and well shaped.

 

Ambari is a man of about forty. He is one of the “Faithfuls”

of Speke, and one of my Faithfuls. He would not run away from

me except when in the presence of an enemy, and imminent personal

danger. He is clever in his way, but is not sufficiently clever

to enact the part of captain—could take charge of a small party,

and give a very