—
Daybreak. Drums beating. Two groups were lined up, ready to move out. At the head of one group stood Goma bearing a rifle. Behind him stood a drummer and forty Africans next to their packs and supplies that consisted of small, tightly packed bales of cloth, wooden and metal boxes or chests, long poles with brass wire wrapped around them, or canvas bags of dried meat and rice hanging down, not to mention folded canvas tents, cooking utensils, tools, and a host of other smaller things. Joining the line of porters, who also carried knives and swords fastened to their waists, were ten gun-bearing soldiers, or guards, and a cook.
Behind Goma’s group, Henry rose at the head of a second unit that looked the same as Goma’s, except he had a flag bearer with an American flag, to symbolize the trip’s American sponsor. Henry also had an African guide, and he had several donkeys with saddles and packs. In addition, Henry’s group remained sitting or lying on the ground next to their loads, smoking or talking and looking relaxed and unorganized. Some of Henry’s men continued to sleep or doze, unaware of what was going on.
Henry nodded his head and raised his hands. “Okay, Goma. March!” Goma’s group picked up its equipment and slowly marched out of the courtyard.
When Janet saw Goma’s group on the move, she felt her adrenaline running.
So this is it. We are on our way at last, into the great unknown.
She felt exhilarated, like running, like jumping, like shouting to the world that she was going. As Goma’s group finally disappeared into the tall grass and trees, a few women and dogs straggling behind, she picked up her pack and strapped it on her back. She too began to march, that is, until she noticed Henry’s group had remained immobile on the ground, not moving an inch.
“Come on! Let’s go!” She shouted to Henry and waved her arms forward as if she were in command, but the men in Henry’s group only snickered and laughed. This made her angry, so she turned and began to run after Goma’s group to catch up until Henry grabbed her arm and pulled her back.
“Not you.”
“Let go of me.” The men laughed at her again. Her exhilaration crashed.
Henry continued to grip her arm. “We travel in separate sections. Goma’s group goes first. We follow.”
“But why split up? It doesn’t make sense.” She relaxed somewhat. Henry released his grip.
“If one group gets attacked, the other will continue the mission.”
“Continue the mission? You mean if—”
“One group gets wiped out and killed.”
Janet’s mouth flew open. She was horrified at the prospect.
“Or if one group attacks and needs help,” he added. “Have a seat, we’ll be here for awhile.”
Hours later, Henry’s caravan bounced along a worn dirt path through fields and streams and low rolling hills. Antelopes scattered. Hartebeests roamed. Strange cries were heard from unseen places. Everyone was happy to be moving at last. From a distance, Henry appeared at the head of the procession, and directly behind him, his guide. Behind the guide, a drummer beat heavily as the Africans shouted, sang, and made as much noise as possible.
Behind the drummer, the flag bearer, then came the porters bearing their loads on their heads, and sometimes with three-legged stools tied to their backs, and then a few women and children, and in between, scattered throughout the line, armed guards with rifles, donkeys, and dogs. Henry set the pace: they marched faster and faster.
Through ravines, valleys, and small villages, past zebras, giraffes, and hippos, spirits stayed high. Through open forests of ebony and calabash, past planted fields of Indian corn and manioc, fruit trees loaded with bananas and mangos, fast-moving streams cascading down from low-lying hills. They moved without stops. As they reached the top of a hill, somewhere near the valley of the Ungerengeri, at the foot of the Uluguru Mountains, Henry halted to look at the staggering beauty of the land set before him—a lush, green paradise.
He spotted a grove near a small lake and looked up. The sun bore down. It was hot. “We’ll rest here! Till the sun goes down!” he shouted to the group. Everybody stopped and lowered their packs. Some ran to the lake for water.
An hour later, Janet rested on a cot inside her tent. She dozed off but was awakened by the sound of voices. She got up and looked outside. She saw Henry shouting angrily at two porters who muttered back and shuffled away. When she saw he was alone, she approached him. Her mood was upbeat. She had hoped to draw from him some semblance of cheerfulness and goodwill.
“We’re making good time, Mr. Stanley.”
Instead of showing goodwill, he glared at her.
She took a deep breath. Invigorated by the fresh air, she spun around, her arms flailing. She tried again. “What a beautiful land God created here. It reminds me of the Scottish Highlands. The smell of life and the living.”
“Don’t get too comfortable,” he replied in a sour tone, causing her to frown.
“Why are you so hostile?”
He didn’t feel like talking. He stooped down and entered his tent, took out a razor, and poured water into a bowl. He set it on a chest, crouched down, and sat on a stool. Janet, who was left standing outside, her anger now beginning to rise, entered. He lathered his face, placed the razor to his skin, and began to shave.
“You’re more savage than the savages,” she said. When he accidentally dropped his razor into the bowl of water, she knew she had hit a nerve. “Your skin is white, yet inside you’re black. Very black.”
He picked up his razor and began again. “You don’t know anything about me.”
“That’s the problem.”
“I’m not here to make friends or chitchat. Go do that with the Africans.” He continued to shave.
“They’re just as unfriendly as you. In fact, everyone is. We all hate each other.” She drew closer to him. “And that man. What was his name? How can you trust a man who mocks you to your face? And the way he looked at you when you called him a bas—”
Henry sharply turned to her and glowered, as if warning her not to repeat that word—bastard.
She paused to watch him shave and decided to change the conversation. “And you tell me not to be concerned.”
He continued shaving. “I meant what I said.”
“Then you tell me not to get too comfortable.”
Henry finished shaving. He placed the razor down and wiped his face with a towel. He spread a blanket down on the ground.
“Miss Livingstone, would you mind?” He wanted her to leave. She left.
Outside, she saw the lake glistening and strolled toward it. On the shore, she took another deep breath and turned around. The Africans seemed far enough away, so, on a whim, she unbuttoned her blouse and rolled up her breeches. Meanwhile, Henry, who had just lain down, got back up and looked. He saw her taking off her boots and socks. He picked up his rifle and walked down. Janet waded into the water, not seeing Henry coming. As she began to swim, a crocodile from the bank slipped into the water.
“You should join me,” she shouted when she finally saw him. She waved her arms and continued to swim.
Henry saw the crocodile moving like a nondescript log toward her. He lifted his rifle and began to shoot, causing the crocodile to jump and thrash. He shot again and again until it was dead. Janet screamed, rushed to the shore, and ran out of the water. She screamed again when she saw a leech had attached to her shoulder. She yanked it off and fell to the ground and wept.
“Just like the Scottish countryside,” Henry muttered.
The next day, the caravan snaked on through dense forests and dales, past sweet-smelling flowers, wild sage, shrubs, and indigo plants, past rich, moist soil and tamarind trees, acacias, and flowering mimosas, boulders and clefts, and dark green woods, mists, and vapors winding up mountainsides. Henry barked orders, imploring everyone to move faster. He barked orders again the next day and the day after that and the day after that. Days became weeks. The sun stared down. Janet stumbled.
They continued to make progress until one morning it began to rain.
They had now reached the Makata Valley where the lush countryside changed from forests and fields to gulches and savannahs with tall grass and bamboo trees, the ground below softening to slush and mire. As the rain thickened into a steady downpour, they entered gullies with marshes and fast-moving rivulets. The mire became a swamp and the caravan marched knee-deep in water. Donkeys brayed. Dogs barked. Some of the supplies fell into the slush. Janet pulled out her raincoat and put it on, but it didn’t do much good. She would have been better off if she were nearly naked like the porters.
The rain hammered. The swamp grew deeper. Henry found an island of dry land where they headed to make camp. Henry and Janet put up their tents, and a few porters put up the equipment tent to keep key supplies dry, but everyone else stayed out in the rain, wrapped only in blankets. Some found cover among fallen trees. At night, Janet shivered in her tent. When she tried to sleep, clouds of mosquitoes and flies attacked. She wrapped her blanket around her skin, hoping this would stop her from being bitten. It did not. And then she began to pray. She wound her brother’s necklace tightly around her hand.
***
“Happy birthday, David. I have a gift for you.” Janet’s mind was back in her parents’ tenement apartment in Blantyre. It was early morning just before sunrise, just before she and David were about to leave for work at the cotton mill.
“What is it?” inquired David.
“Open it.” She took the small, wooden box and pressed it into his hand.
He pulled the top off and lifted out a silver necklace with a crucifix attached and dangled it from his fingers. “It’s beautiful.”
“Put it on.”
“You mean around my neck?”
“Yes, silly.”
With clumsy hands, he pushed his head through the silver chain.
“To remind you of your special mission on earth,” she said.
“You know I don’t like any kind of religious ornamentation, Janet.”
“It’s not an ornamentation. Like I said, it’s a reminder. A reminder of Him.”
“God should exist within us, not in external objects.”
“Then think of it as a reminder of me, an extension of me.”