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

of cloth).

That is all I know about it.”

 

He subsequently showed me the hollow into which the dead body

of Farquhar was thrown, but I could not find a vestige of his

bones, though we looked sharply about that we might make a decent

grave for them. Before we left Unyanyembe fifty men were

employed two days carrying rocks, with which I built up a solid

enduring pile around Shaw’s grave eight feet long and five feet

broad, which Dr. Livingstone said would last hundreds of years,

as the grave of the first white man who died in Unyamwezi.

But though we could not discover any remains of the unfortunate

Farquhar, we collected a large quantity of stones, and managed

to raise a mound near the banks of the stream to commemorate

the spot where his body was laid.

 

It was not until we had entered the valley of the Mukondokwa River

that we experienced anything like privation or hardship from the

Masika. Here the torrents thundered and roared; the river was a

mighty brown flood, sweeping downward with, an almost resistless

flow. The banks were brimful, and broad nullahs were full of

water, and the fields were inundated, and still the rain came

surging down in a shower, that warned us of what we might expect

during our transit of the seacoast region. Still we urged our

steps onward like men to whom every moment was precious—as if a

deluge was overtaking us. Three times we crossed this awful flood

at the fords by means of ropes tied to trees from bank to bank,

and arrived at Kadetamare on the 11th, a most miserable, most

woe-begone set of human beings; and camped on a hill opposite

Mount Kibwe, which rose on the right of the river—one of the

tallest peaks of the range.

 

On the 12th of April, after six hours of the weariest march I had

ever undergone, we arrived at the mouth of the Mukondokwa Pass,

out of which the river debouches into the Plain of Makata. We knew

that it was an unusual season, for the condition of the country,

though bad enough the year before, was as nothing compared to this

year. Close to the edge of the foaming, angry flood lay our route,

dipping down frequently into deep ditches, wherein we found

ourselves sometimes up to the waist in water, and sometimes up

to the throat. Urgent necessity impelled us onward, lest we might

have to camp at one of these villages until the end of the monsoon

rains; so we kept on, over marshy bottoms, up to the knees in mire,

under jungly tunnels dripping with wet, then into sloughs arm-pit

deep. Every channel seemed filled to overflowing, yet down the

rain poured, beating the surface of the river into yellowish foam,

pelting us until we were almost breathless. Half a day’s battling

against such difficulties brought us, after crossing the river,

once again to the dismal village of Mvumi.

 

We passed the night fighting swarms of black and voracious

mosquitoes, and in heroic endeavours to win repose in sleep,

in which we were partly successful, owing to the utter weariness

of our bodies.

 

On the 13th we struck out of the village of Mvumi. It had rained

the whole night, and the morning brought no cessation. Mile after

mile we traversed, over fields covered by the inundation, until we

came to a branch river-side once again, where the river was narrow,

and too deep to ford in the middle. We proceeded to cut a tree

down, and so contrived that it should fall right across the stream.

Over this fallen tree the men, bestriding it, cautiously moved

before them their bales and boxes; but one young fellow,

Rojab—through over-zeal, or in sheer madness—took up the Doctor’s

box which contained his letters and Journal of his discoveries on

his head, and started into the river. I had been the first to

arrive on the opposite bank, in order to superintend the crossing;

when I caught sight of this man walking in the river with the most

precious box of all on his head. Suddenly he fell into a deep

hole, and the man and box went almost out of sight, while I was in

an agony at the fate which threatened the despatches. Fortunately,

he recovered himself and stood up, while I shouted to him, with

a loaded revolver pointed at his head, “Look out! Drop that bog,

and I’ll shoot you.”

 

All the men halted in their work while they gazed at their

comrade who was thus imperilled by bullet and flood. The man

himself seemed to regard the pistol with the greatest awe, and

after a few desperate efforts succeeded in getting the box safely

ashore. As the articles within were not damaged, Rojab escaped

punishment, with a caution not to touch the bog again on any

account, and it was transferred to the keeping of the sure-footed

and perfect pagazi, Maganga.

 

From this stream, in about an hour, we came to the main river,

but one look at its wild waters was enough. We worked hard to

construct a raft, but after cutting down four trees and lashing

the green logs together, and pushing them into the whirling

current, we saw them sink like lead. We then tied together all

the strong rope in our possession, and made a line 180 feet long,

with one end of which tied round his body, Chowpereh was sent across

to lash it to a tree. He was carried far down the stream; but

being an excellent swimmer, he succeeded in his attempt. The bales

were lashed around the middle, and, heaved into the stream, were

dragged through the river to the opposite bank, as well as the

tent, and such things as could not be injured much by the water.

Several of the men, as well as myself, were also dragged through

the water; each of the boys being attended by the best swimmers;

but when we came to the letter-boxes and valuables, we could suggest

no means to take them over. Two camps were accordingly made, one

on each side of the stream; the one on the bank which I had just

left occupying an anthill of considerable height; while my party

had to content itself with a flat, miry marsh. An embankment of

soil, nearly a foot high, was thrown up in a circle thirty feet

in diameter, in the centre of which my tent was pitched, and

around it booths were erected.

 

It was an extraordinary and novel position that we found ourselves

in. Within twenty feet of our camp was a rising river, with flat,

low banks; above us was a gloomy, weeping sky; surrounding us on

three sides was an immense forest, on whose branches we heard the

constant, pattering rain; beneath our feet was a great depth of mud,

black and loathsome; add to these the thought that the river might

overflow, and sweep us to utter destruction.

 

In the morning the river was still rising, and an inevitable doom

seemed to hang over us. There was yet time to act—to bring over

the people, with the most valuable effects of the Expedition—as

I considered Dr. Livingstone’s Journal and letters, and my own

papers, of far greater value than anything else. While looking at

the awful river an idea struck me that I might possibly carry the

boxes across, one at a time, by cutting two slender poles, and

tying cross sticks to them, making a kind of hand-barrow, on which

a box might rest when lashed to it. Two men swimming across, at

the same time holding on to the rope, with the ends of the poles

resting on the men’s shoulders, I thought, would be enabled to

convey over a 70 lb. box with ease. In a short time one of these

was made, and six couples of the strongest swimmers were prepared,

and stimulated with a rousing glass of stiff grog each man, with

a promise of cloth to each also if they succeeded in getting

everything ashore undamaged by the water. When I saw with what

ease they dragged themselves across, the barrow on their

shoulders, I wondered that I had not thought of the plan before.

Within an hour of the first couple had gone over, the entire

Expedition was safe on the eastern bank; and at once breaking

camp, we marched north through the swampy forest, which in some

places was covered with four feet of water. Seven hours’

constant splashing brought us to Rehenneko, after experiencing

several queer accidents. We were now on the verge only of the

inundated plain of the Makata, which, even with the last year’s

rain, was too horrible to think of undertaking again in cold blood.

 

We were encamped ten days on a hill near Rehenneko, or until the

25th, when, the rain having entirely ceased, we resolved to

attempt the crossing of the Makata. The bales of cloth had all

been distributed as presents to the men for their work, except a

small quantity which I retained for the food of my own mess.

 

But we should have waited a month longer, for the inundation had

not abated four inches. However, after we once struggled up to our

necks in water it was use less to turn back. For two marches of

eight hours each we plunged through slush, mire, deep sloughs,

water up to our necks, and muddy cataclysms, swam across nullahs,

waded across gullies, and near sunset of the second day arrived on

the banks of the Makata River. My people are not likely to

forget that night; not one of them was able to sleep until it was

long past midnight, because of the clouds of mosquitoes, which

threatened to eat us all up; and when the horn sounded for the

march of another day, there was not one dissentient amongst them.

 

It was 5 A.M. when we began the crossing of the Makata River, but

beyond it for six miles stretched one long lake, the waters of

which flowed gently towards the Wami. This was the confluence of

the streams: four rivers were here gathered into one. The natives

of Kigongo warned us not to attempt it, as the water was over our

heads; but I had only to give a hint to the men, and we set on our

way. Even the water—we were getting quite amphibious—was better

than the horrible filth and piles of decaying vegetation which

were swept against the boma of the village.

 

We were soon up to our armpits, then the water shallowed to the

knee, then we stepped up to the neck, and waded on tiptoe,

supporting the children above the water; and the same experiences

occurred as those which we suffered the day before, until we were

halted on the edge of the Little Makata, which raced along at the

rate of eight knots an hour; but it was only fifty yards wide,

and beyond it rose a high bank, and dry park-lands which extended

as far as Simbo. We had no other option than to swim it; but it

was a slow operation, the current was so swift and strong.

Activity and zeal, high rewards, presents of money, backed by the

lively feeling that we were nearing home, worked wonders, and in

a couple of hours we were beyond the Makata.

 

Cheery and hopeful, we sped along the dry, smooth path that now

lay before us, with the ardor and vivacity of heroes, and the

ease and power of veterans, We rolled three ordinary marches

into one that day, and long before night arrived at Simbo.

 

On the 29th we crossed the Ungerengeri, and as we came to

Simbamwenni-the “Lion City” of Useguhha—lo! what a change!

The flooded river had swept the entire front wall of