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

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strongly-walled city away, and about fifty houses had been

destroyed by the torrent. Villages of Waruguru, on the slopes

of the Uruguru Mountains—Mkambaku range—had also suffered

disastrously. If one-fourth of the reports we heard were true,

at least a hundred people must have perished.

 

The Sultana had fled, and the stronghold of Kimbengo was no more!

A deep canal that he had caused to be excavated when alive, to

bring a branch of the Ungerengeri near his city—which was his glory

and boast—proved the ruin of Simbamwenni. After the destruction

of the place the river had formed a new bed, about 300 yards from

the city. But what astonished us most were the masses of debris

which seemed to be piled everywhere, and the great numbers of trees

that were prostrate; and they all seemed to lie in the same direction,

as if a strong wind had come from the southwest. The aspect of

the Ungerengeri valley was completely changed—from a Paradise

it was converted into a howling waste.

 

We continued our march until we reached Ulagalla, and it was

evident, as we advanced, that an unusual storm had passed over

the land, for the trees in some places seemed to lie in swathes.

 

A most fatiguing and long march brought us to Mussoudi, on the

eastern bank of the Ungerengeri; but long before we reached it we

realized that a terrific destruction of human life and property

had occurred. The extent and nature of the calamity may be

imagined, when I state that nearly ONE HUNDRED VILLAGES, according

to Mussoudi’s report, were swept away.

 

Mussoudi, the Diwan, says that the inhabitants had gone to rest

as usual—as they had done ever since he had settled in the valley,

twenty-five years ago—when, in the middle of the night, they heard

a roar like many thunders, which woke them up to the fact that

death was at work in the shape of an enormous volume of water,

that, like a wall, came down, tearing the tallest trees

with it, carrying away scores of villages at one fell, sure swoop

into utter destruction. The scene six days after the event—when

the river has subsided into its normal breadth and depth during

the monsoons—is simply awful. Wherever we look, we find something

very suggestive of the devastation that has visited the country;

fields of corn are covered with many feet of sand and debris; the

sandy bed the river has deserted is about a mile wide; and there

are but three villages standing of all that I noticed when en route

to Unyanyembe. When I asked Mussoudi where the people had gone to,

he replied, “God has taken most of them, but some have gone to

Udoe.” The surest blow ever struck at the tribe of the Wakami

was indeed given by the hand of God; and, to use the words of

the Diwan, “God’s power is wonderful, and who can resist Him!”

 

I again resort to my Diary, and extract the following:

 

April 30th.—Passing Msuwa, we travelled hurriedly through the

jungle which saw such hard work with us when going to Unyanyembe.

What dreadful odors and indescribable loathing this jungle

produces! It is so dense that a tiger could not crawl through

it; it is so impenetrable that an elephant could not force his

way! Were a bottleful of concentrated miasma, such as we inhale

herein, collected, what a deadly poison, instantaneous in its

action, undiscoverable in its properties, would it be! I think

it would act quicker than chloroform, be as fatal as prussic

acid.

 

Horrors upon horrors are in it. Boas above our heads,

snakes and scorpions under our feet. Land-crabs, terrapins,

and iguanas move about in our vicinity. Malaria is in the air

we breathe; the road is infested with “hotwater” ants, which

bite our legs until we dance and squirm about like madmen.

Yet, somehow, we are fortunate enough to escape annihilation,

and many another traveller might also. Yet here, in verity,

are the ten plagues of Egypt, through which a traveller in

these regions must run the gauntlet:

 

1. Plague of boas. | 7. Suffocation from the

2. Red ants, or “hotwater.” | density of the jungle.

3 Scorpions. | 8. Stench.

4. Thorns and spear cacti. | 9. Thorns in the road.

5. Numerous impediments. | 10. Miasma.

6 Black mud knee-deep. |

 

May 1st. Kingaru Hera.—We heard news of a great storm having

raged at Zanzibar, which has destroyed every house and every

ship,—so the story runs;—and the same destruction has visited

Bagamoyo and Whinde, they say. But I am by this time pretty

well acquainted with the exaggerative tendency of the African.

It is possible that serious loss has been sustained, from the

evidences of the effects of the storm in the interior. I hear,

also, that there are white men at Bagamoyo, who are about starting

into the country to look after me (?). Who would look after me,

I cannot imagine. I think they must have some confused idea of

my Expedition; though, how they came to know that I was looking

for any man I cannot conceive, because I never told a soul until

I reached Unyanyembe.

 

May 2nd. Rosako.—I had barely arrived at the village before the

three men I despatched from Mvumi, Ugogo, entered, bringing with

them from the generous American Consul a few bottles of champagne,

a few pots of jam, and two boxes of Boston crackers. These were

most welcome after my terrible experiences in the Makata Valley.

Inside one of these boxes, carefully put up by the Consul,

were four numbers of the ‘Herald’; one of which contained my

correspondence from Unyanyembe, wherein were some curious

typographical errors, especially in figures and African names.

I suppose my writing was wretched, owing to my weakness. In

another are several extracts from various newspapers, in which

I learn that many editors regard the Expedition into Africa as

a myth. Alas! it has been a terrible, earnest fact with me;

nothing but hard, conscientious work, privation, sickness,

and almost death. Eighteen men have paid the forfeit of their

lives in the undertaking. It certainly is not a myth—the death

of my two white assistants; they, poor fellows, found their fate

in the inhospitable regions of the interior.

 

One of my letters received from Zanzibar by my messengers states

that there is an expedition at Bagamoyo called the “Livingstone

Search and Relief Expedition.” What will the leaders of it do now?

Livingstone is found and relieved already. Livingstone says he

requires nothing more. It is a misfortune that they did not start

earlier; then they might with propriety proceed, and be welcomed.

 

May 4th.–Arrived at Kingwere’s Ferry, but we were unable to

attract the attention of the canoe paddler. Between our camp and

Bagamoyo we have an inundated plain that is at least four miles

broad. The ferrying of our Expedition across this broad watery

waste will occupy considerable time.

 

May 5th.—Kingwere, the canoe proprietor, came about 11 A.M.

from his village at Gongoni, beyond the watery plain. By his

movements I am fain to believe him to be a descendant of some

dusky King Log, for I have never seen in all this land the

attributes and peculiarities of that royal personage so

faithfully illustrated as in Kingwere. He brought two canoes

with him, short, cranky things, in which only twelve of us

could embark at a time. It was 3 o’clock in the afternoon

before we arrived at Gongoni village.

 

May 6th.—After impressing Kingwere with the urgent necessity of

quick action on his part, with a promise of an extra five-dollar

gold piece, I had the satisfaction to behold the last man reach

my camp at 3.30 p.m.

 

An hour later, and we are en route, at a pace that I never saw

equalled at any time by my caravan. Every man’s feelings are

intensified, for there is an animated, nay, headlong, impetuosity

about their movements that indicates but too well what is going on

in their minds. Surely, my own are a faithful index to their

feelings; and I do not feel a whit too proud to acknowledge the

great joy that possesses me. I feel proud to think that I have

been successful; but, honestly, I do not feel so elated at that

as at the hope that tomorrow I shall sit before a table bounteous

with the good things of this life. How I will glory in the hams,

and potatoes, and good bread! What a deplorable state of mind,

is it not? Ah, my friend, wait till you are reduced to a

skeleton by gaunt famine and coarse, loathsome food—until you

have waded a Makata swamp, and marched 525 miles in thirty-five

days through such weather as we have had—then you will think

such pabula, food fit for gods!

 

Happy are we that,—after completing our mission, after the hurry

and worry of the march, after the anxiety and vexation suffered

from fractious tribes, after tramping for the last fifteen days

through mire and Stygian marsh,—we near Beulah’s peace and rest!

Can we do otherwise than express our happiness by firing away

gunpowder until our horns are emptied—than shout our “hurrahs”

until we are hoarse—than, with the hearty, soul-inspiring

“Yambos,” greet every mother’s son fresh from the sea? Not so,

think the Wangwana soldiers; and I so sympathize with them that

I permit them to act their maddest without censure.

 

At sunset we enter the town of Bagamoyo. “More pilgrims come to

town,” were the words heard in Beulah. “The white man has come to

town,” were the words we heard in Bagamoyo. And we shall cross the

water tomorrow to Zanzibar, and shall enter the golden gate; we

shall see nothing, smell nothing, taste nothing that is offensive

to the stomach any more!

 

The kirangozi blows his horn, and gives forth blasts potential as

Astolpho’s, as the natives and Arabs throng around us. And that

bright flag, whose stars have waved over the waters of the great

lake in Central Africa, which promised relief to the harassed

Livingstone when in distress at Ujiji, returns to the sea once

again—torn, it is true, but not dishonoured—tattered, but not

disgraced.

 

As we reached the middle of the town, I saw on the steps of a

large white house a white man, in flannels and helmet similar

to that I wore. I thought myself rather akin to white men in

general, and I walked up to him. He advanced towards me, and

we shook hands—did everything but embrace.

 

“Won’t you walk in?” said he.

 

“Thanks.”

 

“What will you have to drink—beer, stout, brandy? Eh, by George!

I congratulate you on your splendid success,” said he, impetuously.

 

I knew him immediately. He was an Englishman. He was Lieut.

William Henn, R.N., chief of the Livingstone Search and Relief

Expedition, about to be despatched by the Royal Geographical

Society to find and relieve Livingstone. The former chief,

as the Expedition was at first organized, was Lieut. Llewellyn

S. Dawson, who, as soon as he heard from my men that I had found

Livingstone, had crossed over to Zanzibar, and, after consultation

with Dr. John Kirk, had resigned. He had now nothing further to

do with it, the command having formally devolved on Lieut. Henn.

A Mr. Charles New, also, missionary from Mombasah, had joined

the expedition, but he had resigned too. So now there were left

but Lieut. Henn and Mr. Oswell Livingstone, second son of the

Doctor.

 

“Is Mr. Oswell Livingstone here?” I asked, with considerable

surprise.

 

“Yes; he will be here directly.”

 

“What are you going to do now?” I asked.

 

“I don’t think it worth my while to go now. You have taken

the wind out of our sails completely. If you have relieved

him, I don’t see