—
“We left Mikadani in June—no, it was July, in 1866, with twelve sepoy guards armed with Enfield rifles, and thirty-five Africans. We carried the usual items for the trek, including scientific instruments so I could measure the land accurately. From the start, it was an ill-fated trip.” David took a deep breath as he let his mind reach back in memory.
“We traveled up the Rovuma River, hacking through thick jungle growth, which broke the morale of my men. We had not gone far when they began to complain about the harsh conditions. Some accused me of strange practices—witchcraft and sorcery. They couldn’t understand why or where they were going. I told them to find the source of the Nile.”
Janet wanted to interrupt him. She didn’t want to hear his story. She had her own story to tell. And yet, there was something about the tone of her brother’s voice that gripped her. He no longer looked at her. He seemed to be hypnotized by some unseen power, and he kept nervously twirling the necklace in his hand.
“As we marched farther, the men began to desert, taking with them bales of supplies. Without these, we couldn’t trade for food, and soon we suffered from hunger. As we neared Lake Nyasa, we entered the territory of the Mazuti, who had marauded other tribes to the north for slaves. They had destroyed all the villages in the region and taken all stocks of food, so we suffered even more hunger.
“More of my men deserted and I was left with only eleven men. I was sick and nearly starved to death with only my faithfuls. We walked for months in circles; we were lost. Do you know what it’s like to be lost in Africa? I didn’t know where I was. My compass had been damaged so I couldn’t get an accurate reading of our position. And then we ran into a large Arab caravan who offered to help us.”
David stopped, reached for Janet’s arm. He looked deeply into her eyes, as if he were searching for her soul.
“I only did it because I was desperate. You must believe me. Without their help, I would have been dead. I had no choice. Please understand!” He spoke like a man driven by guilt. Then he settled back to resume his tale, his eyes drifting away again.
“This was December 1866. By then, I found out where we were and thought that the Nile began from Lake Bangweulu farther to the west, so I set out for it. But the winter monsoons came with heavy rain and swamps. The man who carried my medicine chest deserted and took all of my drugs. It might well have been a death sentence. I had nothing to treat my dysentery, and I was struck with rheumatic fever. And also some of the men got sick with nothing to treat them, causing more of them to desert. We ended up getting delayed and walked in circles for about a year to the end of July. I think this was, oh, about 1868.” He broke off his narrative to allow himself to double-check the accuracy of the date. Once he was satisfied, he continued on.
“We ran into another slave caravan who felt sorry for us and gave us food and agreed to take my letters to Zanzibar, requesting from the British consul to send me more supplies. My group traveled on to Lake Tanganyika where we were supposed to cross it and come here to Ujiji to wait for my requested supplies, but heavy fighting in the region broke out between local tribes and the Arabs. That held us back again.
“In the meantime, I found out about the Lualaba River and was told that it ran into the Nile through the Congo, but by then I was down to just four men, my health failing once again with ulcers on my feet and in my intestines. My teeth were falling out from malnutrition.” He stopped to open his mouth and show Janet his missing teeth.
“After time passed, another Arab caravan helped us get back to Ujiji, where I could rest and obtain drugs, but still, the supplies I sent for had not arrived. Yet, by the summer of 1870, I decided to gamble. With a few more men, including my faithful servants, Susi and Chumah, I set out for Nyangwe, a village located on the Lualaba River.
“We crossed Lake Tanganyika once again and had reached Bambarre, just a few days’ march from Nyangwe, when I suddenly fell ill again, with anal bleeding and pneumonia, and the ulcers in my feet flared so I couldn’t walk, so we were delayed a long time until around February—I think—1871. When we finally reached the village of Nyangwe, I tried to obtain canoes to continue my journey and confirm my theory about the Nile, but the villagers refused. They knew I was helped by the slave caravans. They thought I was one of them. Can you imagine that, me a slave trader? How could they even think like that?” His voice rose in indignation.
“So there I was, stuck in Nyangwe, unable to move. Soon, another Arab caravan arrived from the east, and they told me that my supplies from Zanzibar had arrived and were waiting for me in a storehouse in Tabora. With that information, I went back to Dugumbe—he was the leader of the slave caravan—and offered to trade my supplies in Tabora if he would let me travel with him along the Lualaba River since he was going in that direction anyway. All I was thinking about was I had found the source of the Nile but had to get more evidence. I overlooked that Dugumbe was carrying slaves. I didn’t ask how he had gotten them. My only thought was to stay alive and to find the Nile.
“Dugumbe said he would think about it, so I waited in Nyangwe, dependent on him for everything, which I hated. As you know, we were taught never to depend on anyone.”
Janet nodded her head. They both knew that the Livingstone credo was independence.
“Weeks passed. I sat around reading the Bible and writing notes in my journal while Dugumbe still had not made up his mind. One morning, I was walking in the marketplace. The local people were out shopping as usual. So far, the Arabs had not tried to enslave them. They assured the Nyangwe people they only wanted to use their village as a base for caravans going farther inland, and they were safe from kidnap or capture.
“Mostly women along with their children were shopping or trading that morning. It was a typical hot, humid day. But then around midday, I heard gunfire. I looked around and saw a group of slavers with rifles walking briskly. I thought this was strange, for they never carried rifles in the market. When they reached the upper end of the square, they opened up, firing volley after volley into the crowd.” David paused and tried to stand up.
“They mowed them down, by the dozens, by the hundreds, blood and bullets everywhere. The villagers ran toward the river, hoping to swim across, but the slavers came to the bank and kept firing and killing many, many more. Those who survived the bullets were ripped apart by crocodiles before they could cross. The killing went on for hours and hours. It was horrible, horrible . . .” He struggled to contain his emotions. His eyes grew moist and wet. It took him a while before he could resume.
“For those weeks living in Nyangwe, and even before that, when I was first helped by a slave caravan and traveled with it farther north, I had compromised my principles. Perhaps, it could be excused when I was lost and helpless, when I had nearly starved to death, but when we reached Nyangwe, I had a choice. I turned my back on what I believed and cooperated with the slave traders. I allowed them to corrupt me, to forget about slavery, all for the sake of finding the Nile. After the slaughter, I realized I could not go on. My dream had come to its end. I decided there and then to go back to Ujiji.
“I stayed on for a few days more, helping those who survived to find bodies of their relatives and friends. That’s where I found Kalulu, whose mother was shot and lying on the ground. We buried her—me, Susi, and Chuma. After that, my health broke down again. From the stress of the massacre, my blood pressure went up. My bowels broke down from dysentery, and the ulcer in my intestines flared up into pain. I also had a very high fever and had to lie up in bed. Again, without the help of Susi, I would have perished. I wanted to perish, but we gathered a few of the girls whose parents were killed. I was now determined to get them out before Dugumbe could make them slaves.
“We slipped away and headed east toward Ujiji, and as we marched, we passed so many Africans, so many, wandering along the trail, without family or food, running from villages that had been burned and raided. Most were children who ran from us because they thought we were slavers, except Makeda, who we found walking alone, talking to her black rag doll. We passed more villages as we trudged, all of them empty except for dead bodies and bones picked clean by vultures and hyenas. We picked up two more children along the path, Chichi—she’s the one with a protruding belly—and Shali—she’s the tall girl with the bald head—who were walking together. They came from a nearby village where their families were killed.
“Before we reached the western banks of the lake where I knew a tribe that would help us cross, we were attacked again by Africans in the bush, once again thinking that we were slavers. For five days, we were constantly set upon. Arrows were shot at us. Two spears narrowly missed my head. A huge tree that was felled with fire was purposely cast down on our path, just missing me. Two of the girls that came with us from Nyangwe were killed along with two of my men. Oh, Janet, I have never been so close to death, but it didn’t matter to me. I was not afraid. The only thing that kept me going was getting these children back here to Ujiji, to save them if it were the last thing I would do on earth. So you see, I sent you this necklace, not for me, but for them.”
He stopped again, his hands still fingering the silver chain and crucifix.
For several moments, Janet sat perfectly still. Midway through his narrative, she had lost any sense of shock. Rather, he had awakened in her an indignation she had experienced with the slave caravan that Henry’s group had passed before Tabora. In a way, David had completed a picture that was already slowly coming to her. He had confirmed to a greater degree the full extent of the slave trade horror that she had briefly seen.
David was right. Everything else, the whole world searching for one white man while an entire race of human beings was being destroyed, suddenly became unimportant. But that did not obviate the difficult task he asked her to do. He had come so far with these children and survived against all odds, many times facing his death. He had succeeded so far. But she, a woman without his abilities, would surely fail. Her mind was overwhelmed with doubts.
“Mr. Stanley will never have it. I know what he thinks.”
“Then you must force him.”
“How?”
“The Lord always finds a way for the righteous. You must be bold as a lion.” She bowed her head. Such comparisons only intimidated her. He had to try another approach. He began to recite Longfellow:
Tell me not, in mournful numbers,
Life is but an empty dream!
For the soul is dead that slumbers
And things are not what they seem . . .
Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
Is our destined end or way;
But to act, that each to-morrow
Find us farther than to-day . . .
Act,—act in the living Present!
Heart within, and God o’erhead!