As we have seen, Livingstone said farewell to Stanley on March 14th,
1872; and prepared to wait in Unyanyembe until his friend had reached
Zanzibar, and sent a body of picked natives back to act as his escort.
In his diary he makes careful reckonings as to the length of time this
will mean, and concludes that he cannot expect his men until July 15th.
It was August 14th before they arrived. He had to wait five weary months
at Unyanyembe; and the lateness of his start brought the wet weather
near, and handicapped the expedition from the first. We may just stay to
record that Stanley’s march to the coast was beset with
difficulties--“the whole ten plagues of Egypt”--but it was successfully
accomplished, and the men he sent back to Livingstone were of the very
best. Stanley encountered at Zanzibar members of an English relief
expedition that had been sent out to find and succour Livingstone. Of
this expedition, the explorer’s son, Oswell, was a member. After hearing
Stanley’s news they decided that it was unnecessary to go on, and
returned to England.
To the ordinary person five months of waiting would have been almost
intolerable. There are signs that even Livingstone had some ado to sit
still and count the days. But if they were profitless months to him, and
if often he was, as he records, “weary, weary,” the revelations
contained in his journal are by no means profitless to us. He has time
to write fully as to his plans and his motives. He takes us into his
confidence; and we see that he has lost nothing in all these years of
that eager curiosity which belonged to him as a boy. He still carries in
his breast “the heart of a little child.” The wonderful Ptolemy and the
naïve Herodotus are pondered over; and all the stories of “fountains”
and “pillars” awaken in the great traveller the desire to test them for
himself. He is evidently not sure that there is not something in them
after all. He would dearly like to find out. He cannot reconcile Ptolemy
with the investigation of Baker, Speke, and Grant; and it has all the
delight of a fascinating conundrum to him.
_April 18th._--“I pray the good Lord of all to favour me so as to allow
me to discover the ancient fountains of Herodotus, and if there is
anything in the underground excavations to confirm the precious old
documents (τἀ βιβλία), the Scriptures of truth, may He permit
me to bring it to light, and give me wisdom to make a proper use of it.”
On the first of May he records that he has finished a letter to the _New
York Herald_. This is the letter which concludes with the now
world-renowned words upon his tablet in the Abbey--“All I can add in my
loneliness is, may Heaven’s rich blessing come down on every
one--American, English, or Turk--who will help to heal the open sore of
the world.” By a coincidence the words were written one year to the
very day before the writer’s death.
He meditates much on the native faiths. He recognises as the fundamental
fact “dependence on a Divine Power,” but “without any conscious feeling
of its nature.” He notes also their belief in a continued existence
after death, so as to be able to do good to those they love and evil to
those they hate.
“I don’t know how the great loving Father will bring all out right at
last, but He knows and will do it.” For himself, his confidence is
anchored, as it has always been, in the plain word of Christ, the
perfect Gentleman.
_May 13th._--“He will keep His word, the Gracious One, full of grace and
truth--no doubt of it. He said, ‘Him that cometh unto Me, I will in no
wise cast out,’ and ‘Whatsoever ye shall ask in My name that will I do.’
He _will_ keep His word: then I can come and humbly present my petition
and it will be all right. Doubt is here inadmissible, surely.”
He is reading Speke’s travels with critical enjoyment. He spends a page
or two in challenging his statement that African mothers sell their own
children. He does not believe it. He has never known an instance, nor
have the Arabs. He always defends the essential goodness of the natives,
and their common human feelings. Then he appeals to the heroism of the
Church at home to come and help the African people. “I would say to
missionaries, Come on, brethren, to the real heathen. You have no idea
how brave you are till you try. Leaving the coast tribes and devoting
yourselves heartily to the savages, as they are called, you will find,
with some drawbacks and wickednesses, a very great deal to admire and
love.” A little later he is arguing that the interior is a tempting
field for “well-sustained efforts of private benevolence.” He thinks the
missionary should make up his mind not to depend upon “foreign support,”
and gives instances of his own resourcefulness where he had none to
depend on but himself. He is for “a sort of Robinson Crusoe life,” the
great object being “to improve the improvable among the natives.” As to
method, he writes later, “no jugglery or sleight-of-hand ... would have
any effect in the civilisation of Africans; they have too much good
sense for that. Nothing brings them to place thorough confidence in
Europeans but a long course of well-doing.... Goodness and unselfishness
impress their minds more than any kind of skill or power. They say, ‘You
have different hearts from ours.’ ... The prayer to Jesus for a new
heart and a right spirit at once commends itself as appropriate.” He
notes, too, that music influences them, and often leads to conversion.
Scattered through the journal are his usual keen observations on the
animal life and plant life of the district, together with brief
narratives of tribal quarrels and crimes. Again and again he confesses
uncertainty as to whether he has not been tracing the sources of the
Congo rather than the Nile. If he had not had a scientific mind and
training, he argues that long ere this he would have cried “Eureka!”
and gone home with a half-proved hypothesis. But his absolute love of
truth forbids.
By the middle of July his men have not come, though he has heard of them
as being on the way. He is very tired of the delay; but returns at
length to the subject of missions in Africa, and indulges in one passage
which clearly shows how his Puritan common-sense never deserted him. “A
couple of Europeans beginning and carrying on a mission without a staff
of foreign attendants implies coarse country fare, it is true, but this
would be nothing to those who at home amuse themselves with fasts,
vigils, &c.” A great deal of power is thus lost in the Church. Fastings
and vigils, without a special object in view, are time run to waste.
They are made to minister to a sort of self-gratification, instead of
being turned to account for the good of others. They are like groaning
in sickness. Some people amuse themselves when ill with continuous
moaning. The forty days of Lent might be annually spent in visiting
adjacent tribes and bearing unavoidable hunger and thirst with a good
grace. Considering the greatness of the object to be attained, men might
go without sugar, coffee, tea, &c. I went from September, 1866, to
December, 1868, without either.”
He gives us also a vivid summary of his impressions of the slave system,
assuring us that “in sober seriousness, the subject does not admit of
exaggeration. To overdraw its evils is a simple impossibility. The
sights I have seen, though common incidents of the traffic, are so
nauseous that I always try to drive them from memory. In the case of
most disagreeable recollections I can succeed, in time, in consigning
them to oblivion, but the slaving scenes come back unbidden, and make me
start up at dead of night horrified by their vividness.”
August comes, and still no arrivals. There is a charming description of
the African children and their sports and games, followed by
observations on the swallows and the spiders. Then he breaks off to
exclaim: “That is the atonement of Christ. It is Himself. It is the
inherent and everlasting mercy of God made apparent to human eyes and
ears. The everlasting love was disclosed by our Lord’s life and death.
It showed that God forgives because He loves to forgive. He works by
smiles, if possible; if not, by frowns. Pain is only a means of
enforcing love.”
At last, on August 14th, the miserable suspense is at an end. The new
expedition marches safely into Unyanyembe. Livingstone lifts up his
heart in gratitude to God. Many of those who have come to help him had
marched with Stanley and were well seasoned. Some were Nassick boys from
Bombay, among whom were John and Jacob Wainwright. It will never be
forgotten how much we owe to the intelligence and courage of the latter.
Five only in the new expedition belonged to Livingstone’s “original
followers.” These are Susi, Chumah, Amoda, Mabruki and Gardner. It is
much to know that Livingstone was never more loyally and devotedly
served than during this last march, which was to have so sad a
termination and so heroic a sequel.
Ten days were allowed for rest and preparations for departure, which
included the setting aside of certain stores to await them on the
homeward march. Then, on August 25th, they slipped quietly out of the
town of which Livingstone was so weary, and started for the southern
part of Tanganyika. We are beginning now the last journey, which ended
eight and a half months later, after incredible toils and sufferings. It
is difficult to estimate the exact length of it, for there were many
short diversions. One need only remember that from the middle of
September David Livingstone was to all intents and purposes a dying man.
The internal hæmorrhage began again, and the entry in his diary on
September 19th is that for eight days he has eaten nothing. No rest and
no medicines have any lasting effect upon him after this; and he can
scarcely have been out of pain, which frequently amounted to agony.
They made their way at first mainly through forest and hilly country,
passing from village to village, each day having its burden of travel,
its problem of supplies. Livingstone finds the climbing “very sore on
legs and lungs.” On the 8th of October his eyes rested once again on the
blue waters of Tanganyika. The day heat is very trying. Some of the men
are sick; all are tired. “Inwardly I feel tired too.”
They had come to Tanganyika by a circuitous route. They now kept to the
highlands running south-west, and travelled along the ridge, 1,000 feet
above the lake. He notes that the lake-side is favourable for cotton,
and admires the glory of the sunsets. The various arms and bays of the
lake are carefully observed. The route is still very mountainous, and
painfully up and down. October is past before he reaches the part where
the lake narrows and becomes what the natives call Lake Liemba. It is
slow and weary work around the southern section. The heat is intense.
“The sun makes the soil so hot that the radiation is as if it came from
a furnace. It burns the feet of the people and knocks them up.
Subcutaneous inflammation is frequent in the legs, and makes some of my
most hardy men useless.” He maintains that walking is better than
riding. Suddenly he breaks off his description of the toilsomeness of
the journey to set this down:
“The spirit of Missions is the spirit of our Master, the very genesis of
His religion. A diffusive philanthropy is Christianity itself. It
requires perpetual propagation to attest its genuineness.”
The day after this he is “ill and losing much blood.” Another disaster
is that the large donkey which has borne him from time to time over
difficult ground has been badly bitten by tsetse, is now useless, and
shortly dies. “It is a great loss to me.”
From the southern extremity of the lake they proceeded almost due south,
the main difficulty being provided by the Lofu river, over which they
built a bridge. A little further south they turned westward, evidently
making for the north of Lake Bangweolo. Many rivers are crossed, and
more hilly regions negotiated. Then comes an entry in the journal in so
shaky a hand as to be almost undecipherable. It simply tells us that he
is ill and camping “in a deserted village.” Yet there is no halting on
the march. River after river is crossed; and on December 18th he sees
once more his old friend the Kalongosi or Kalongwesé river. “We crossed
it in small canoes, and swamped one twice, but no one was lost.” They
now march south for the lake. Christmas Day--“our great day”--is cold
and wet, but it inspires Livingstone’s thanks to “the good Lord for the
good gift of His Son, Christ Jesus our Lord.” He also finds time for
some meditations on the Blue and the White Nile. The end of the year
brings very heavy weather, during which no observations can be taken.
One of the men also is taken critically ill and dies. They plant four
trees at the corners of the grave.
As the expedition drew near Lake Bangweolo, they came upon a region
composed of “spongy” morass. The men describe it as endless plunging in
and out of morasses, and the effect on their strength and spirits must
be conceived. It was terrible work, and Livingstone was spent with
chronic dysentery. On they went, however, plunging through this horrible
country. Yet such alleviations as nature affords are not forgotten.
Livingstone enumerates all the flowers he sees: the marigolds and the
jonquils, the orchids and the clematis, the gladioli and the flowering
bulbs. He rejoices also to distinguish balsams and “pretty flowery
aloes, yellow and red, in one whorl of blossoms.” The world is clearly
not forsaken that has these tokens of the divine presence.
A week of priceless time was lost in the middle of January owing to the
misrepresentations of a chief called Chungu; and all the while they were
marching aimlessly over the desperate spongy country. They have to get
back to their starting point, and strike eastward to make a circuit of
the lake. Livingstone has to be carried across many of the morasses and
rivers on the shoulders of one or other of his men. The march was at
times almost impossible. January 23rd saw them quite lost. No
observations could be taken, and it was “rain, rain, rain.” Then came
January 24th, and this dramatic entry in the journal:
“Carrying me across one of the broad, deep, sedgy rivers is really a
very difficult task. One we crossed was at least 2,000 feet broad. The
first part, the main stream, came up to Susi’s mouth, and wetted my seat
and legs. One held up my pistol behind, then one after another took a
turn, and when he sank into an elephant’s deep footprints he required
two to lift him.... Every ten or twelve paces brought us to a clear
stream, flowing fast in its own channel, while over all a strong current
came bodily through all the rushes and aquatic plants. Susi had the
first spell; then Farijala; then a tall, stout, Arab-looking man; then
Amoda; then Chanda; then Wadé Salé; and each time I was lifted off
bodily and put on another pair of stout, willing shoulders, and fifty
yards put them out of breath--no wonder!” We are not surprised to learn
that progress is “distressingly slow; wet, wet, wet, sloppy weather
truly, and no observations.” January closes miserably. They have no
proper guides. “It is drop, drop, drop, and drizzling from the
north-west.” The country is all froths and sponges. Livingstone loses
much blood, but with characteristic optimism expresses the hope that it
is a safety-valve, for he has no fever.
The lack of guides is serious. Livingstone reckons they lost half a
month now floundering about in this sodden, depressing country,
suffering much hunger; and it is all due to the unfriendliness of some
and the fears of others. When guides were ultimately obtained progress
was far more speedy and direct; but what the fatigue and exposure have
meant to the sick man can be best gauged by the note in the journal on
February 14th, which follows the record of another “excessive
hæmorrhagic discharge.”
“If the good Lord gives me favour, and permits me to finish my work I
shall thank and bless Him, though it costs me untold toil, pain and
travel; this trip has made my hair all grey.”
Melancholy reading as the last month has been, it is perhaps not so
heartbreaking as the next. It represents the almost desperate exertions
of a dying man to get on; yet he is thwarted and deceived at every turn.
He fixes his hopes on the chief Matipa, and on the 22nd of February
sends Susi and Chumah to find him. Matipa appeared to be friendly, and
eventually the expedition travels by canoes towards his country. Then
they have to cross flooded prairie, and camp on a “miserable, dirty,
fishy island.” They arrive at last, and Matipa is profuse in his
promises and plausible in his plans. Time was of no value to Matipa. He
drowned his cares in “pombe”; but Livingstone is in misery. Day after
day passes, and no promised canoes arrive to carry the expedition
westward. By the 18th of March he is convinced that Matipa is “acting
the villain.” The next day is his birthday, and sacred to other
thoughts. “Thanks to the Almighty Preserver of man for sparing me thus
far on the journey of life. Can I hope for ultimate success? So many
obstacles have arisen. Let not Satan prevail over me, O my good Lord
Jesus!”
Never had he been in worse case. Matipa was false again; and Livingstone
took the extreme step, for him, of making a demonstration in force, and
firing a pistol through the roof of the chiefs house--a movement which
resulted in Matipa’s flight. He returned, however, soon after in a
chastened frame of mind. Some canoes being available at last, on March
24th Livingstone started with all his goods, his object being to get
across the Chambezé. It was an awful journey. Six hours’ punting brought
them to a little islet without a tree, and the rain descended
pitilessly. They got what shelter they could out of an inverted canoe,
and crouched under it. The wind tore the tent and damaged it. The loads
were soaked. It was bitterly cold. “A man put my bed into the bilge and
never said ‘Bail out,’ so I am safe for a wet night, but it turned out
better than I expected.”
“_March 28th._--Nothing earthly will make me give up my work in despair.
I encourage myself in the Lord my God and go forward.”
The next day sees them across the Chambezé; but progress is extremely
slow, and it is April the 5th before the neighbouring river, Lobingela,
is passed. Meanwhile, as we learn from a subsequent entry in the diary,
his final critical illness has begun. On March 31st, an artery began
“bleeding profusely.” Yet he does not dream of resting. The whole
country round Lake Bangweolo is a shallow sea. It is impossible to say
where the rivers begin and end. Livingstone’s mode of progression is
being punted along in a canoe. Further inland there is a marching party
struggling along parallel with the canoes. On April 10th, he sets down
that he is pale and bloodless. The artery “gives off a copious stream
and takes away my strength. Oh! how I long to be permitted by the Over
Power to finish my work.” The 17th of April witnesses another calamity,
when “a tremendous rain after dark burst all our now rotten tents in
shreds.” He is now utterly weak and ill, fighting his complaint with
quinine, and trying to believe it is no more than fever. On the 19th,
however, he confesses he is “excessively weak, and but for the donkey
could not move a hundred yards.” He adds pawkily, “it is not all
pleasure this exploration.”
The diary is now painful reading, the writing becomes very shaky,
eloquent of weakness and pain.
He has service on Sunday, April 20th, as usual.
The last entries are quite short.
“_21st April._--Tried to ride but was forced to lie down, and they
carried me back to vil., exhausted.” The fact is that the old hero
insisted on being put on his donkey, only to fall to the ground. He was
carried back to the halting-place on Chumah’s shoulders.
“_22nd April._--Carried on kitanda over Buga, S.W. 2¼.” The men made
a rude palanquin, covered it with grass and a blanket, and in this way
carried the dying chief for two hours and a quarter. They
[Illustration: ON THE LAST MARCH.]
were two and a quarter hours of excruciating agony; and it was a relief
to all when a village was reached where a rude hut could be erected.
The next day was similar. They carried him for another hour and a half.
The following day one hour’s journey was all that he, in his extreme
emaciation, could endure. He was too weak now to write anything except
the date. On the 25th, they proceeded for an hour, and found themselves
among a simple, friendly people. The trend of Livingstone’s thoughts may
be gathered by some questions he addressed to the natives. He wanted to
know whether they had ever heard of a hill on which four rivers had
their rise. They shook their heads, but confessed themselves no
travellers. On the following day they still moved on; and Livingstone’s
unconquerable hope appeared in the fact that he instructed Susi to buy
two large tusks, because he might be short of goods when they got back
to Ujiji, and he could buy cloth of the Arabs with them.
The last entry in the diary, the last words he ever wrote, stand under
the date April 27th, 1873:--
“27.--Knocked up quite and remain--recover--sent to buy milch goats.--We
are on the banks of the Molilamo.”
He is lying at Kolunganjovu’s town. His one hope is in milk, but the
search for milch goats was vain. The whole district had been plundered
by the Mazitu. He tried to eat a little pounded corn but failed. The
28th was spent in similar vain endeavours to obtain milk. On the 29th
the chief, who said “everything should be done for his friend,” offered
to escort the caravan to the crossing-place, and see them provided with
canoes. There was an initial difficulty. Livingstone could not walk to
the door of the hut to reach his litter. The wall was opened, and the
sick man transferred from his bed to the litter in that way. The
narrative of his devoted men is now most explicit. It is eloquent alike
of the great leader’s fortitude and their own unfailing consideration.
We need not linger on the details; the agony of lifting him into the
canoe, and lifting him out; the journey through “swamps and plashes”;
the arrival at Chitambo’s village; the delays in building the hut while
he lay “under the broad eaves of a native hut,” and a soft drizzle of
rain descended. At last the shelter was erected and banked round with
earth; the bed was made, raised on sticks and grass; the medicine chest
placed on a large box that did duty for a table; and a fire kindled
outside opposite the door. Just inside the boy Majwara lay down and
slept, that he might be at hand if wanted.
The imagination reverently dwells on every detail of the scene, for the
old hero has made his last journey, and is about to sleep his last
sleep. While he was lying on his litter outside, and the rain was
falling, curious villagers had gathered round, each man with bow in
hand, for they had been guarding their crops. This was the great chief
who had come from far. His fame they knew somewhat; they could not know
that he was the best friend Africa ever had. They gazed respectfully
and wonderingly at the thin, pale, emaciated sufferer with the bloodless
hands and lips, and the face distorted with sharp throes of agony.
Through the falling rain they watched him; and in days to come would
tell their children that they had seen Livingstone.
That night passed quietly; and when Chitambo called next day,
Livingstone, with unfailing courtesy, received him, though he had to beg
the chief to go away and return on the following day, when he hoped to
feel stronger. All that morning he lay suffering, his strength gradually
ebbing. In the afternoon he bade Susi bring him his watch, and with
great effort he slowly wound it. Night fell at last; and at eleven
o’clock Livingstone called Susi. There were noises heard. “Are our men
making those noises?” said Livingstone. Susi told him that the villagers
were scaring a buffalo. “Is this the Luapula?” he asked again; and Susi
knew that his master was wandering in his mind. How ardently he had
desired to reach the Luapula through those terrible weeks and months on
the sponges and through the floods! When Susi told him where they were,
he asked again, “How many days to the Luapula?” “I think it is three
days,” said Susi. There was no more except the cry of pain, “Oh, dear,
dear!” Then he dozed. Near midnight he sent for Susi again. This time
Livingstone told him to boil some water; and, when Susi had filled the
copper kettle, he again asked for the medicine chest. The candle had to
be held close to him, for his eyes were very dim. But he did just
succeed in selecting some calomel, which he wanted to have at his side
with a little water in a cup.
Then he said, very faintly, “All right! you can go now.”
These were the last words he was heard to speak. It almost seemed as if
a higher Master had said to His tired servant, “All right! _You_ can go
now.”
What happened after that is known only to the One who was with him at
the last. The boy Majwara slept; and while he slept the miracle
happened. For it appeared miraculous and incredible to his men, who had
seen his utter inability to move himself, that he did actually rise from
off that rude couch and did kneel down at the side, his knees probably
on the bare soil, and there in the attitude of prayer commended himself
to God,
“And his fair soul unto his Captain Christ.”
When the lad Majwara awoke at 4 a.m. and saw the strange sight of his
master kneeling thus, he was afraid, and slipped out to warn the others.
Susi dared not go in alone. He ran to rouse Chumah, Chowperé, Matthew,
and Nuanyaséré. The six stood awestruck at the door of the little hut.
On the box a candle was burning. It was just stuck there in its own wax,
but it relieved the darkness; and they gazed at the still, bowed form.
He was lying, stretched forward across the bed, in the attitude of
prayer, his head buried in his hands. None seemed to dare to approach
him for a while. Then Matthew, reverently and tremblingly, stretched out
his hand and laid it on his master’s cheek. It was quite cold. David
Livingstone was dead. It was the morning of the first of May, 1873.
With the death of the hero, most biographies perforce end. In this
respect Livingstone’s story is wholly unique. The most thrilling and
sensational chapter remains to be written. Nothing more convincingly
illustrates Livingstone’s ascendancy over his followers than the events
which followed his death. It would have been easy for the men to have
hurried the body into the ground, divided the property among themselves,
and dispersed to their homes. Perhaps the last thing to be expected was
that they would shoulder the dead body, and carry it from the centre of
Africa, more than a thousand miles, through hostile and inhospitable
country, to the ocean. Yet this was what they did; while the method,
order and reverence of their proceedings would have done honour to the
wisest and most civilised of our race. Let us now see how they faced
the duty that had suddenly come to them.
The discovery that Livingstone was dead was made about 4 a.m. The news
was carried round at once to all the men; and as soon as day dawned they
assembled for conference. The dead man’s possessions were collected, the
boxes opened in the presence of all, and Jacob Wainwright made a careful
and exact inventory on a page of Livingstone’s little metallic
pocket-book, in which his own last entries had been made. The next
business was to appoint Susi and Chumah, the oldest and most experienced
of Livingstone’s followers, as leaders of the expedition. All promised
to obey their orders; and all kept their word. Fearing lest the native
superstitions in regard to departed spirits might lead to some outrage
on the dead body, or that Chitambo might demand some ruinous fine, they
decided to conceal for the present the fact of the death. In this
respect they had misjudged Chitambo, who soon learned what had happened,
and proved himself the kindest and most sympathetic of advisers. All
were agreed that the body of Livingstone must be carried back to the
coast.
The first practical step, after making the inventory, was a remarkable
one. Outside Chitambo’s village the men erected a small settlement of
their own, fortified by a stockade. Here they built a circular hut, open
to the sky, but strong enough to resist any attack of wild beasts, and
in this they laid the body of Livingstone. His followers were stationed
all round like a guard of honour. It happened that Farijala had once
been servant to a Zanzibar doctor, and knew the elementary facts about a
post-mortem. With the assistance of a Nassick boy, Carras, he undertook
to do what was necessary. Certain rites of mourning having been
performed, and volleys fired, a screen was held over these men while
they did their work. The heart and viscera were removed, placed in a tin
box, and reverently buried four feet in the ground, while Jacob
Wainwright read the Burial Service from the English Prayer Book. The
body was then dried in sun for fourteen days. So emaciated was it that
there was little more than skin and bone. For coffin, they stripped the
bark off a Myonga tree “in one piece”; the corpse was carefully
enveloped in calico and inserted in the bark cylinder. The whole was
sewn up in a piece of sail-cloth and lashed to a pole, so that it could
be carried on the men’s shoulders. Then Jacob Wainwright carved
Livingstone’s name and the date of his death on the tree standing near
where the body rested. Chitambo was charged to keep the ground free from
grass lest bush-fires should burn the tree. Finally they erected two
strong posts, with a cross beam, and covered them thoroughly with tar,
so that the spot might be definitely identified. They seem to have
forgotten nothing that could be done to keep in perpetual memory the
place where Livingstone breathed his last.
The line of march determined on was up the west coast of Lake Bangweolo
and across the Luapula River; then north-eastward till they struck the
route by which they had come from Unyanyembe. It seemed at the outset as
if all their hopes were to be frustrated. In three days half the
expedition were down with fever. Two women died. Susi became critically
ill and could not move. They were delayed a whole month, and only
started again to break down once more. It was not till they had crossed
the great Luapula River--four miles broad--that things went better with
them. Near where the River Liposhosi flows into the lake at Chawendes
village, the expedition was unfortunately brought into active conflict
with the chief and his tribe, and a regular affray took place in which
blood was shed and many native houses burned. It is probable that a
calmer and stronger leadership might have averted this; but it was proof
of the determination of the devoted band to defend their precious burden
with their lives. After this, the march was, on the whole, a favourable
and peaceful one. They turned north towards Tanganyika, but, profiting
by previous experience, gave the lake itself a wide berth, keeping well
to the east, and traveling far more easily than Livingstone had
[Illustration: CARRYING THE BODY TO THE SEA.]
done owing to the fact that they largely avoided the mountainous region.
Everywhere the news of Livingstone’s death had preceded them; and they
were made aware that a party of Englishmen was at Unyanyembe awaiting
their arrival. Jacob Wainwright wrote down the story as we know it, and
Chumah hurried on by forced marches to deliver it to the Englishmen in
question, who turned out to be Lieutenant Cameron, Dr. Dillon, and
Lieutenant Murphy, members of a search expedition. To them, on October
20th, 1873, Chumah brought the news, and soon afterwards the gallant
band arrived and delivered all Livingstone’s belongings intact to his
fellow-countrymen. Lieutenant Cameron was decidedly in favour of burying
the body in African soil; he also took the liberty of appropriating most
of Livingstone’s instruments to the use of his expedition. This latter
act the men were powerless to resist, but in regard to the former they
were not to be moved. It was useless to argue with them as to the
disturbed district between Unyanyembe and the coast. They had made up
their minds that the great Doctor must “go home.” Lieutenant Murphy and
Dr. Dillon decided to return to Zanzibar with them, and the former does
not appear to have been a very amicable companion. Dr. Dillon’s tragic
fate is well known. Seized with fever on the journey, he went out of his
mind and committed suicide.
One further incident has to be recorded illustrative of the resolution
and ingenuity of the members of the expedition. Near Kasekera matters
developed threateningly, and the men became convinced that there would
be growing hostility along the route to the passage of a dead body. They
accordingly resorted to a ruse. They unpacked the body, and repacked it
to look like an ordinary bale of goods. Then they filled the old
cylinder with sticks and grasses, and solemnly despatched six men back
to Unyanyembe to bury it! Needless to say that as soon as these men got
well into the jungle they disposed of their burden, and rejoined the
main caravan by devious routes. So well did every man keep his counsel,
that it was believed henceforth that ordinary merchandise was being
carried to Zanzibar. On February 15th, 1874, their sacred charge was
fulfilled, and their precious burden, so jealously and triumphantly
preserved, was handed over to the possession of the British Consul at
Bagamoio on the coast. The _Calcutta_ transferred the remains to Aden,
and the P. and O. steamer _Malwa_ carried them thence to Southampton,
where on April 15th a special train was in waiting to convey them to
London. That evening they were deposited in the rooms of the
Geographical Society in Savile Row, and examined by Sir William
Fergusson and other medical gentlemen. The “oblique fracture” of the arm
which had been broken by the lion so many years before, and the false
joint that had resulted, provided ample identification of the remains.
On Saturday, April 18th, they were borne through the crowded streets of
the capital to Westminster Abbey and deposited in the centre of the
nave. Among the pall-bearers were several who had been closely
identified with the great explorer--Mr. Stanley, Dr. Kirk, Mr. Webb, Mr.
Oswell, Mr. Young, and not least Jacob Wainwright, the Nassick boy. In
the vast congregation there was no nobler, or more striking figure than
Livingstone’s father-in-law, the veteran Dr. Moffat, the father of her
who “sleeps on Shupanga brae, and beeks forenent the sun.” No grave in
the famous Abbey is more frequently asked for by visitors than his. It
makes its solemn appeal to the world year after year, for the plain slab
is extraordinarily happy in its inscription:--
Brought by faithful hands
Over land and sea,
Here Rests
DAVID LIVINGSTONE,
Missionary, Traveller, Philanthropist.
Born March 19, 1813,
At Blantyre, Lanarkshire.
Died May 4th,[A] 1873,
At Chitambo’s Village, Ilala.
[A] There appears to be a conflict of evidence as to the date of
Livingstone’s death. Whilst the Diary gives the date as the 1st of May,
that on the grave in Westminster Abbey is the 4th.
For thirty years his life was spent
in an unwearied effort to evangelise
the native races, to explore the
undiscovered secrets,
And abolish the desolating slave-trade
of Central Africa, where, with
his last words, he wrote:
“All I can say in my solitude is,
may Heaven’s rich blessing come
down on every one--American,
English, Turk--who will help to
heal the open sore of the world.”
Along the right border of the stone the happily-chosen words:--
Tantus amor veri, nihil est quod
noscere malim
Quam fluvii causas,
per saecula tanta latentes.
And along the left border,
“Other sheep I have which are
not of this fold, them also I must
bring, and they shall hear my
voice.”