Into Africa: The Epic Adventures of Stanley & Livingstone (21 page)

Stanley trusted Bombay so much he let the former slave hire his own soldiers. Bombay hand-picked twenty men. For defence, the force carried ‘one double-barrelled smooth bore No. 12, two American Winchester rifles or “sixteen shooters”, two Starr’s breech-loading carbines, one Jocelyn breech-loader, one elephant rifle, carrying balls eight to the pound, two breech-loading revolvers, twenty-four flintlock muskets, six single-barrelled pistols, one battle axe, two swords, two daggers, one boar spear, two American axes, twenty-four hatchets and twenty-four long knives’.

Stanley, it seemed, was ready for anything. In less than a month he had assembled his caravan and was preparing to get under way.

On 5 February, as the sun rose over the Indian Ocean, Stanley said goodbye to Webb and his family. Four dhows bobbed in the harbour right in front of the American Consulate. As a going-away present, Webb’s wife sewed
Stanley an American flag. She had come to enjoy his company a great deal, though she’d thought him gruff when they first met. The flag was Mrs Webb’s contribution to her husband’s and Stanley’s anti-British subterfuge. Stanley ran the provocation up his dhow’s mast. He hadn’t written any newspaper dispatches to the
Herald
from Zanzibar, for fear of giving away his intentions. That would wait until he reached somewhere deep in the interior. The home-made Old Glory, now fluttering and snapping in the wind, would add a patriotic dimension to Stanley’s trip that was sure to please his readers.

Now Henry Morton Stanley was leading an expedition into the African interior, with the purpose of finding David Livingstone. It was a glorious moment indeed.

Stanley’s flotilla of forty-foot-long dhows contained two other valuable presents: horses. One was a bay, the gift of an American merchant. The larger, a grey, was from Sultan Barghash. The Sultan had taken to Stanley after the reporter impressed him with travel stories of journeys through Islamic countries. The Sultan also presented Stanley with a signed paper, stating the New York
Herald
expedition could go anywhere in his domain, unhindered. The backing of such an influential friend emboldened Stanley. It was just a month since he’d arrived in Zanzibar. He had known just one person when he arrived. But through ambition, drive and even a little personal charisma, Stanley had financed the entire journey and made two very powerful friends in Webb and Barghash.

When it came time to sail that day, Shaw and Farquhar were missing. It was mid-morning when Stanley found them in a seaside bar, drinking whisky, surrounded by a dozen new acquaintances, spending their advance salary. Farquhar, in Stanley’s words, ‘was holding forth on the greatness of the art of African exploration’. In truth, Farquhar was scared of the unknown miles that lay ahead. He was lazy, insolent and mean. Farquhar was much too proud to admit fear aloud, but like Shaw, he was drinking to calm himself. ‘Trying’, as Stanley scornfully wrote later, ‘to stave off with the aid of whisky the dread presentiments
that would insidiously now and then obtrude themselves into their minds, warning them that though the new lands were about to be revealed to them, with all the fantastic scenes credited to the new country, there might be something in these strange parts that might … well, what?’

Stanley glowered at the sailors. ‘Get into the dhows at once, men,’ Stanley barked. ‘This is a rather bad beginning after signing contracts.’

Shaw spoke up. He was more complicated than Farquhar, more sensitive and less afraid to show his fears. Unlike Farquhar, however, who could find work on a ship that would take him away from Zanzibar and Africa if he successfully deserted from Stanley, Shaw was stuck on the island. The false charge of mutiny by the captain of the USS
Nevada
made him unemployable. Though proven innocent, no other skipper in port would hire him. Unless Shaw wanted to stay on Zanzibar for ever, earning his passage money by working for Stanley was his only option.

On the verge of departure, though, Shaw was cowed by Africa, and haunted by fears he’d signed on too hastily. ‘If you please, sir, may I ask if you think I have done quite right in promising to go with you to Africa?’ Shaw asked tentatively as Stanley stood over him. Farquhar remained quiet.

The question about the group’s safety in Africa — unspoken for so long — hung between the three men. Their differences in manner and background were many, and best heard in their accents: Shaw’s clipped Cockney, Farquhar’s working man’s Scottish brogue, Stanley’s curious Southern drawl. But all three had privately wondered whether going into Africa was wise. That hesitation was one of the few things they had in common. But devoid of hubris and machismo, and spoken on the verge of their journey as a plea to be released from his obligation, Shaw’s question placed the issue squarely at the middle of their triangular relationship — where it would remain for the rest of their journey together.

Stanley, even as Shaw’s words dangled in the air, chose
to scoff. ‘Have you not received your advance? Have you not signed the contract?’ Stanley asked. ‘Get into the boat, man, at once. We are all in it for now. Sink or swim. Live or die. None can desert his duty.’

When the
Herald
expedition’s dhows finally sailed for the mainland just before noon, Shaw and Farquhar were reluctantly on board. Stanley looked back and scanned the shore. Kirk was nowhere to be seen. But Stanley spied Webb, his wife and two young children cheering him on, waving star-spangled hats, handkerchiefs and even a banner. ‘Happy people, and good!’ Stanley wrote of the Webbs. ‘May their course and ours be prosperous, and may God’s blessing rest on us all.’

Then Stanley turned his back on Zanzibar, ready to face at last the land haunting his dreams. In the final days on the island, when people asked his destination, Stanley no longer mentioned the headwaters of the Rufiji. Instead, in simple tones, he declared: ‘I am going to Africa.’

Now Henry Morton Stanley had the blessing of the American Consul, and was flying the American flag. It was a moment that swelled Stanley with pride. And yet Stanley harboured one great secret — something he concealed from everyone he met and was now carrying into Africa — Stanley was not an American. He was, in fact, as British as Livingstone.

CHARACTER IS BUILT
through trials and turmoil. Stanley, who endured a heart-wrenching childhood, then an adolescence fraught with hardship, sexual molestation and longing, and an international change of residence, had seen an abundance of both in his life. Despite the challenges and setbacks, he still indulged himself in moments of great hope. Without that lustrous act of faith there could be no viable search for Livingstone.

Life had taught Stanley to prepare for the worst in any new situation. As a result he was steeled, almost resigned, to the African mainland being a brutish place that was far more harrowing than his nightmares. But in the days after Stanley’s dhows dropped anchor on the coral reef forming Bagamoyo’s natural harbour, he was surprised to discover Africa wasn’t as bad as he thought. At least, Bagamoyo wasn’t. Weary of Zanzibar’s claustrophobia and squalor, Stanley revelled in the sweet ocean breezes and the abundance of coastal jungle greenery. ‘We were able to sleep in the open air, and rose fresh and healthy each morning,
to enjoy our matutinal bath in the sea. And by the time the sun had risen we had engaged in multitudinous preparations for our departure for the interior,’ he wrote.

Bagamoyo would be the second, and final, stage of Stanley’s launch. Zanzibar was for purchasing supplies, while Bagamoyo was for hiring the men to carry them and for indulging in last-minute organization. On the surface it was an idyllic place for a man to gather his thoughts and gain perspective. The white sand beach was a crescent curving slowly outward. Stanley could see ten miles down the coast in either direction, see the tall rows of palm and pine trees separating sand from jungle. Dhows lay stranded on their sides at low tide, making it easier to unload boats. The sounds of Swahili being spoken mingled with the thunk of shipwrights swinging short-handled axes into felled tree trunks and the clatter in the treetops of wind knocking palm fronds against one another.

Sand berms along the beach protected Bagamoyo from the sea. The town was set two hundred yards back on a single long street with a few houses made of stone and others of mud. The buildings were whitewashed, like those in Zanzibar, but were mostly one storey, and without the island’s signature ornate wooden doors. The population was Arab slavers, Indian merchants and slaves. The only Europeans were the French fathers of the Holy Ghost Roman Catholic mission, which resided on several acres just inland, to the north. Stanley rented a home on the western edge of Bagamoyo, with a courtyard for penning the pack animals and pitching tents. As new supply needs made themselves known, he began sending Bombay back and forth on the four-hour dhow journey to Zanzibar for last-minute items.

The paradise of Bagamoyo, however, came with a sad legacy. It was the terminus of the slave caravans, and the last African soil slaves would ever tread. Originally, the Arabs had named the town Bwagamoyo — ‘throw off melancholy’ — but the slaves changed it. Bagamoyo, in Swahili, means ‘crush your heart’.

Life in Bagamoyo was even slower-paced than Zanzibar. With his anxieties and short attention span, Stanley grew bored. The euphoria of leaving Zanzibar was soon replaced by an impatience to leave Bagamoyo. Time was closing in. The monsoons were coming. But Stanley was stuck. The Zanzibar cholera epidemic of 1869–70 had devastated the East African coast, too, killing over one hundred thousand people. Wary of the disease, skilled porters were still avoiding Bagamoyo, which meant there weren’t enough men to carry Stanley’s massive load. The journalist offered double and triple the going rate, but he still couldn’t find porters. There were tasks for him to oversee in the meantime, such as compressing the doti into bundles. Otherwise, all Stanley could do was wait for the manpower.

In his boredom, Stanley’s fears returned. He realized again how ‘impracticable’ it was to search for Livingstone. And again, he went as far as to make allusions to suicide. He would kill himself, he wrote in one bizarre sentence, ‘by putting my head in a barrel of sand, which I thought to be a most easy death, and one I gratuitously recommend for all would-be suicides’.

His thoughts never went beyond rumination, but they defined Stanley’s mood. He was edgy, afraid of failure, trying to contain an inner foreboding. Finding Livingstone was more than just an assignment — he pictured it as the rightful conclusion to the self-help regime he’d begun two years before in Aden. He was a glory-hound, but had the prescience to realize that facing his fears by trekking across Africa would give him charge of his destiny. ‘I mean, by attention to my business, by self-denial, by indefatigable energy, to become my own master and that of others,’ he wrote.

He was propelled by an underdog’s penchant for proving himself through extreme actions, no matter how dangerous or how much they scared him. That which did not kill Stanley definitely made him stronger. He had been a timid, needy child. But each new challenge since leaving home had hardened him and added another notch of
courage. Cumulatively, they had prepared him for Africa. He knew how to camp, how to shoot, how to endure days without food and water, how to march. Instead of observing and writing about the actions of others, as the life of a journalist traditionally mandated, Stanley would write about himself. Hero or goat, he was about to take centre-stage.

So he shooed the depression away and turned it into rage. The rage, in turn, was directed at one man: John Kirk. Their one-sided battle of wills and wits — a skirmish of which Kirk was almost completely unaware — wouldn’t end just because Stanley had sailed to Africa.

A fresh opportunity for attacking the British Consul arose when Stanley noticed that Livingstone’s caravan of relief supplies, which had left Zanzibar on 1 November, over three months earlier, was still in Bagamoyo. In that time the caravan could have almost travelled to Ujiji. Instead, the porters drew a daily salary for doing nothing, living off Livingstone’s money as they made trips back to friends and family in Zanzibar. ‘They lived in clover here,’ Stanley fumed. ‘Thoughtless of the errand they had been sent upon, and careless of the consequences.’

The problem lay with Kirk. Overwhelmed by his new duties and apathetic about helping Livingstone, he allowed the caravan to idle. He knew that in addition to the seven men hired in Zanzibar, the relief caravan required an additional thirty-five porters to carry all the loads. He had not, however, hired them. Kirk had also been an Africa hand long enough to know that heat and malaise robbed men of initiative, made them lazy, made them cowards. It wasn’t enough merely to purchase supplies, trusting that the porters would deliver them. After the failure of the 1868 and 1869 resupply attempts, Kirk knew it was vital that porters be hired, and that a supervisor escort the caravan all the way to Ujiji — if only to act as a catalyst. Kirk hadn’t arranged such an escort, either through his contacts in Zanzibar or by travelling to Bagamoyo and arranging it himself, so the porters showed no sign of leaving.