DEATH OF FRANK POCOKE.
Frank Pocoke, as stated previously, joined the expedition under Stanley
as a servant, and his brother had fallen at what proved to be the mere
outset of the real main expedition, subsequently Frank, by his
intelligence, geniality, ability and courage, and perhaps quite as much
by the necessity of companionship that Stanley felt the need of in that
wild region, and which only a white, civilized man could furnish, had
risen above the position he had taken till Stanley looked upon him more
as a friend than as a servant. This was natural; he was the only man he
could talk with in English; the only man who had the taste and manners
of civilized life; the only one who in the long halt could in any way be
his companion; and, more than all, the only man who could certainly be
depended on to stand by him in the hour of danger to the last, and fall,
if fall they must, side by side. Whoever else might prove false in these
vast untrodden solitudes, Frank Pocoke, he well knew, would not be one
of them. Under such circumstances and conditions, Stanley would not have
been the true man he is if he had not lifted the servant up to the
place of a friend. It was therefore but natural that in the long mental
discussion at Ziangwe as to whether he should return or choose some
other route than through the hostile tribes whose territory the waters
of the Lualaba washed, or push on at all hazards by following its
current to the sea, that he should take his quondam servant into his
confidence and they should together talk over all the probabilities of
the different routes to be adopted. In another place we have shown what
those difficulties were, and what the real or imaginable obstacles were
that confronted Stanley if he determined to follow the Lualaba at all
hazards to the sea.
In speaking of the death of young Pocoke, we wish to show what influence
he had at last in fixing the determination that led to his own death and
to Stanley's fame as an explorer. One day, while Stanley was discussing
with Pocoke the wisest course to pursue, the latter said: "Mr. Stanley,
suppose we toss up, to determine whether we shall follow the Lualaba as
far as the Lowra, and then strike off for Monbruto, or follow it to the
sea?"
Stanley, who had become almost indifferent as to whether one course or
the other would end his life, agreed, and a toss-up was made, the result
being on the side of following the river to the sea. The drawing of
straws was then resorted to. Three trials of chances were made, and the
decision of fate, as proposed by Pocoke, was to follow the river to the
sea. He little thought that accidental toss was a toss-up for his own
life, and that so trivial an affair settled his fate forever. We know
what was Stanley's final decision, and though he does not acknowledge
that this trial by chances had any effect on his final determination,
the experience of human nature, since the world began, proves that it
must have had. Even Napoleon, who believed that Providence was on the
side of the strong battalions, had an equally strong belief in his
"star." While it, doubtless, did have more or less influence on Stanley,
it did not weaken his faith in the "strong battalions," which was, in
his case, a wise provision, so far as he could make it, against all
possible and probable contingencies.
We have said thus much to show the real relations that Frank Pocoke at
last sustained to the expedition. In the long and terrible march through
the gloomy forest after leaving Zywague, and before finally launching on
the Lualaba, to quit it no more till they reached the sea or lay at rest
forever on its solitary banks, Pocoke's shoes had become completely worn
out. In traversing, half-barefoot, the tangled undergrowth, they had at
last given out entirely, and the result was his feet became chafed, and
at last, through constant irritation, caused by the necessity of
hastening forward at all hazards, the abrasions that would have healed,
could they have made a short halt, became ulcers, so that when they
again struck the Lualaba he was unable to walk any farther, and Stanley
said that if at any time they would have to leave the river and carry
around rapids, Frank would have to be carried also. Stanley always led
the way over the rapids and selected the paths for hauling around the
canoes, while Pocoke superintended the soldiers, distributed the
rations, etc. But now he was placed on the sick-list.
On the morning of the 3d of June, they came to the Mowwa Falls, around
which they must carry and the men shouldered the goods and baggage and
started overland for Zinga, three miles distant, while Stanley attempted
to run two small falls, named Massesse and Massassa, with the boat's
crew. Hugging the shore for about three-quarters of a mile, they came at
last to a lofty cliff, against which the tide threw the down-rushing
stream back in such fury that great whirlpools were formed and they
steered for the centre of the river and endeavored to stem the tide, but
failed. After fighting fiercely against the raging of whirlpools, they
tried again to advance in another direction, when Stanley discovered
that his boat was fast filling with water, while the surface became
still more terribly agitated at a point toward which he had been
unconsciously drifting. The danger now became imminent. Shouting to the
men to leave off bailing and pull for life for the shore, he threw off
his coat, belt and shoes, to be in readiness to swim when the boat
should capsize, as he expected it would. A wild whirlpool was near the
boat and for a moment it seemed certain that it would drift into the
vortex. But by a strong effort it was forced away and they pulled for
shore. By the time they had reached it, the leaky boat was half-full of
water. Finding it impossible to proceed in it he returned to Mowwa
Falls, and after a short rest took a canoe and tried to proceed. But
while he was talking with Pocoke, the crew had scattered, and as those
who had gone to Zinga had not returned, he determined to go overland and
look after the goods, and leave to his chief captain, Manwa Sera, the
supervision of the passage of the falls. He told him to first send
forward a reserve canoe with short ropes fastened to the sides. "The
crew," he said, "will pick their way carefully down the river until near
the falls, then let the men judge for themselves whether they are able
to take the canoe farther. Above all things stick to the shore and do
not play with the river." He then bade Pocoke good-bye, saying he would
send him his breakfast immediately with hammock bearers, shook hands and
turned to climb the mountain toward the camp.
Sending back the breakfast as he had promised, he paid a visit to the
kings of Zinga. Becoming anxious about the boats, as this was the first
time he had ever permitted any one but himself to lead the way in any
dangerous part of the river, he about three o'clock took his glass and
going to the shore began to look up the river that came tearing out of
the mountain like a wild animal and shaking the shores with its loud
thunder. Suddenly he saw something black tossing amid the turbulent
water. Scanning it closely, he saw it was an upturned canoe and to its
sides several men were clinging. He instantly dispatched two chiefs and
ten men to a bend toward which the wreck was drifting. The crew,
however, knowing there was another cataract just below, attempted to
right the boat and save themselves; but, unable to do so, got on the
keel and began to paddle for dear life with their hands toward the
shore. As they got near the far bank, he saw them jump off the boat and
swim for shore. They had hardly reached it when the overturned boat shot
by Stanley like an arrow and with one fierce leap dashed over the brink
of the cataract and disappeared in the foam and tumult below. In a few
minutes a messenger arrived out of breath, saying that eleven men were
in that canoe, only eight of whom were saved--the other three being
drowned, one of whom was Pocoke. Stanley turned fiercely on Uledi, his
coxswain, and demanded how he came to let Pocoke, a lame man, go in the
rescue canoe. "Ah, master," he replied, "we could not help it, he would
not wait. He said, 'since the canoe is going to camp I will go too. I am
hungry and cannot wait any longer. I cannot walk and I do not want you
to carry me, that the natives may all laugh at me. No, I will go with
you;' and refusing to listen to Captain Manwa Sera, who remonstrated
with him, he got in and told us to cast off. We found no trouble in
forcing our way against the back current. We struck the down current,
and when we were near the fall I steered her into the cove to take a
good look at it first. When I had climbed over the rocks and stood over
it, I saw that it was a bad place--that it was useless to expect any
canoe to go over it without capsizing, and I went to the little master
and told him so. He would not believe me, but sent other men to report
on it. They told the same story: that the fall could not be passed by
shooting over it in a canoe. Then he said we were always afraid of a
little water and that we were no men. 'All right,' I said, 'if you say
cast off I am ready. I am not afraid of any water, but if anything
happens my master will be angry with me.' 'Cast off,' the little master
said, 'nothing will happen; am I not here?' You could not have counted
ten, master, before we were all sorry. The cruel water caught us and
tossed and whirled us about and shot us here and shot us there, and the
noise was fearful. Suddenly the little master shouted 'Look out! take
hold of the ropes! and he was tearing his shirt off when the canoe,
which was whirling round and round with its bow in the air, was dragged
down, down, down, until I thought my chest would burst; then we were
shot out into daylight again and took some breath. The little master and
two of the men were not to be seen, but soon I saw the little master
with his face upward but insensible. I instantly struck out for him to
save him, but we were both taken down again and the water seemed to be
tearing my legs away; but I would not give in; I held my breath hard
then and I came to the surface, but the little master was gone forever.
This is my story, master." Stanley then examined the men separately, to
ascertain if it were true and found it was. This man was brave but not
foolhardy, and the best and most reliable in the whole party.
[Illustration: DROWNING OF FRANK POCOKE.]
Stanley very briefly expressed the sadness and loneliness of his
feelings that night as he sat and looked on the empty tent of young
Pocoke, but no language can express the utter desolation of his
situation. His position, surroundings, prospects, all combined to spread
a pall black as midnight over his spirit and fill his heart with the
gloomiest forebodings. Sitting alone in the heart of a country never
before trod by the foot of a white man, on the banks of a mysterious
river, on whose bosom he was to be borne he knew not where, the gloomy
forest stretching away beyond him, the huts of strange natives behind
him, the water in deep shadows rushing by, on whose foam and whirlpools
his friend had gone down, and whose body then lay tossing amid the
broken rocks, the strangely silent tropical sky, brilliant with stars,
bending over him, the thoughts of home and friends far away caused a sad
and solemn gathering of emotions and feelings around his heart till they
rushed over it like that rushing water, and made him inconceivably sad
there in the depths of the forest. With no one to talk to in his native
tongue, no one to counsel with, without one friend on whom he could
rely, left all alone to meet the unknown future, was to be left desolate
indeed. Before, he knew there was one arm on which he always could lean,
one stout, brave heart that would stand unflinchingly by his side in the
deadliest peril, share all his dangers, and go cheerfully to the very
gates of death with him. But now he was alone, with none but natives
around him, with whom he must meet all the unknown dangers of the
untrodden wilderness before him--perhaps be buried by them in the gloomy
forest or left to be devoured by cannibals. It was enough to daunt the
bravest spirit, appall the stoutest heart, and that lonely night on the
banks of the Lualaba will live in Stanley's memory forever.
Stanley pronounced a high eulogium on his young friend, saying that he
was a true African explorer--he seemed to like the dangers and even the
sufferings of the expedition, so well did they harmonize with his
adventurous spirit. Quick and resolute, he was always docile and in the
heat and excitement of battle would obey Stanley's slightest wish with
alacrity. He seemed fitted for an explorer; no danger daunted him, no
obstacle discouraged him, while his frame, though slight, was tough and
sinewy, and he was capable of undergoing any amount of labor and could
endure the heaviest strain. He had so endeared himself to Stanley that
the latter said, in a letter to young Pocoke's parents, that his death
took away all the joy and exultation he should otherwise have felt in
accomplishing the great task the two had undertaken together.