Into Africa: The Epic Adventures of Stanley & Livingstone (38 page)

Immediately after that particular kill, Stanley walked alone to the banks of the Gombe and stripped for a swim. He was in a pensive mood and wanted to be alone. The Gombe meandered slowly past, its waters green and languid. Lotus leaves floated on the surface and it
reminded Stanley of something from a summer dream.

He relaxed as he stepped into the warm water. There wasn’t an ounce of fat on his body any more, just sinewy muscle. Stanley stretched then brought his hands together in front of him to dive into the deep waters. ‘My attention was attracted by an enormously long body which shot into view, occupying the spot beneath the surface that I was about to explore. Great heavens, it was a crocodile!’ he wrote that night. Africa had soothed him and calmed him and made him feel as if he were its master. But it was a myth. The continent had no equal. He took the crocodile as a reminder to ‘never again be tempted by the treacherous calm’.

His heart beating, Stanley hastily grabbed his clothes and retreated from the river bank to dress. He walked back to camp slowly, composing himself, then ate a hearty meal of zebra steak as the moon rose. He hunted again the next day, and the next. By the time their three days had come to an end, Stanley and his men had killed two buffaloes, two wild boar, a hartebeest, a zebra, an impala and several birds. The bounty was so overwhelming that it couldn’t all be eaten before breaking camp. Stanley selected a group of porters to cut and dry the uneaten meat for the miles ahead. The new guides, Asmani and Mabruki, told of over one hundred miles of barren wilderness to come, where game would be hard to find and there were no villages for purchasing food. The crocodile encounter had been a grim reminder that Stanley needed to be prepared for anything. Loading up on food stores could save their lives.

On the morning of Saturday, 7 October, the New York
Herald
expedition broke camp and prepared to leave the hunting ground behind. They faced three more days of long marches to the south-west before turning north and making haste for Ujiji, and the men were deeply unhappy. They had liked their three-day rest and loathed the idea of pressing forward. They wanted to stay near the game one last day, continuing their hunting, feasting and relaxation.

Just as the march was to begin, Bombay approached
Stanley. He had been designated the group’s spokesman and would now break the news that the men refused to march. The short man was unafraid of Stanley, and had shown it repeatedly throughout the journey by silently absorbing the lashings Stanley inflicted upon him with a dog whip. Bombay requested the extra day of rest, and without hesitation Stanley berated him for even broaching the subject. There would be no rest, he furiously stated. At that, Bombay’s face, normally the picture of accommodation, turned mean. He shoved his lower lip out in a display of contempt then turned his back on Stanley and delivered the news to the men.

The entire camp watched them in silence. As Bombay walked off, Stanley barked for the horn to be blown, signalling the start of the march. More silence followed, though some of the men were obediently stooping down to pick up their loads. Asmani’s voice wafted across the campsite, shouting to Mabruki that he was sorry he’d taken on the journey.

Insolently, angrily, the porters shouldered their loads and their bare feet padded down the trail. Fearing desertions, Stanley rode at the rear of the caravan when it finally got under way. Selim was nearby with a shotgun and pistols, should Stanley need them.

Only a mile later, the men threw their bales to the ground. The caravan lurched to a dead halt. The men formed into small groups and began arguing, as if contemplating something sinister. Stanley dismounted. ‘Taking my double-barrel gun from Selim’s shoulder, I selected a dozen charges of buckshot and, slipping two of them into the barrels and adjusting my revolvers in order for handy work, I walked on towards them. I noticed that the men seized their guns as I advanced,’ he wrote that evening.

The soldiers were there to protect Stanley, but there was no telling how they might behave after Stanley and Bombay’s falling-out. The soldiers, however, ceased being the centre of Stanley’s concerns. He spied two men trying to hide behind a set of earthen ramparts, but the hiding
place was too small — their heads and the barrels of their guns stuck out. ‘Come forward and talk to me or I will blow your heads off,’ Stanley shouted. He levelled his shotgun in their direction and took careful aim.

To Stanley’s shock, Asmani and Mabruki rose and began walking towards him. Asmani smirked as he walked. The fingers of his right hand tickled the trigger of his rifle.

‘Drop your gun or I will kill you instantly,’ Stanley shouted.

Asmani dropped the gun, but his smirk remained. ‘His eyes shone the lurid light of murder,’ Stanley noted, ‘as ever it shone in a villain’s eyes.’

Stanley was almost a foot smaller than Asmani. He studied the guide’s eyes and body language, looking for a sign of what would happen next.

Asmani gave nothing away. But behind Stanley came the sound of a powder being carefully loaded into a musket. He spun around with his gun chest-high, and was shocked to see that Mabruki had crept around behind him. Just four feet away, the guide was preparing to fire. ‘Drop your gun instantly,’ Stanley demanded, then reminded both men that his smooth bore could fire off twenty-four shots to their one.

As Mabruki complied, Stanley jabbed him hard in the sternum with his own gun. Mabruki flew backwards, buying Stanley the time to confront Asmani, who had bent down to retrieve his gun. ‘Put the gun down,’ Stanley ordered nervously, fingers on the trigger. Asmani would not. He slowly raised it towards Stanley’s face.

Stanley was about to shoot — wanted to shoot, if only to set an example. If he couldn’t intimidate Asmani, his power was ended. But just as he was about to fire, a soldier came from behind and knocked away the big man’s gun. ‘How dare you point your gun at the master?’ he said incredulously.

Watching this, Mabruki realized his foolishness. He threw himself at Stanley’s feet and began kissing them, then demanded that Asmani apologize — which he did. Stanley had them both thrown in chains.

For good measure, Stanley beat Bombay about the shoulders with a spear. Stanley was becoming like Livingstone in so many positive ways — except for his inability to treat subordinates with respect.

JOHN KIRK WAS
in a state of panic. Messengers from the interior had just arrived, carrying newspaper dispatches written by Henry Morton Stanley. The American, it turned out, was more than a mere traveller; he was a journalist, and in search of Livingstone. American Consul F. R. Webb had gleefully shown Kirk portions of Stanley’s initial dispatch. Stanley was reporting that war in Tabora had stopped all caravans — including Livingstone’s relief supplies. Once word reached New York, then London, it was inevitable that blame for Livingstone not receiving his supplies would fall squarely upon Kirk. It was vital that Kirk proactively state his case.

‘My Lord,’ Kirk wrote to Foreign Secretary Lord Granville on 22 September. ‘Letters just received by special messengers who left Unyanyembe about a month ago, inform us of a sad disaster … I am indebted to Mr Webb, the American Consul here, for some details related in those letters, which will, no doubt, be published in full elsewhere.’

Though Stanley’s first story was a nuts and bolts
preview of the actual expedition, detailing caravan logistics and apologizing for spending so much of Bennett’s money, it was clear that Stanley was leaving no stone unturned. There was a very good chance Kirk’s name would eventually make it into print for failure to expedite Livingstone’s relief supplies. Even worse, however, was that Mirambo had just closed the trail to Ujiji. Kirk knew that the supplies would have got through if he had done his job properly. In a second letter, written three days later, Kirk assured Sir Roderick Murchison there would be little chance of British embarrassment at the hands of Stanley. ‘His prospect of getting on is at present small,’ Kirk wrote on 25 September. ‘But I cannot really say where he desires to go to. He never disclosed his plans to me,’ Kirk wrote. Then Kirk signed off by pleading, ‘Believe me.’

Unfortunately for Kirk, Murchison would never receive the letter. The acting British Consul to Zanzibar would have to weather the Stanley crisis on his own.

A LITTLE WILD-EYED,
a little weary, a little paranoid, Stanley was in control. The caravan moved forward. Above the treetops, hills could occasionally be seen on the horizon. When the caravan finally ascended the hills and carefully picked its way down the far side, Stanley noted with pleasure that the slopes were westward facing, and took it as a sign that Lake Tanganyika was getting closer. The vegetation changed from mere woodland trees to thick orchards of mbembu fruit, which tasted like a peach. Tamarind seeds and wild plums were abundant, as were game birds for the cooking pot. Only the sight of shiny white human skulls adorning the gates of a local village detracted from the Eden-like atmosphere.

The terrain changed daily as they pushed further off the beaten path: undulating plains pocked with brackish pools of water; steep mountains; marshes heavy with water, making every step a test of stamina. One forty-mile stretch was nothing but swamp, just like the Makata so many months before.

On 10 October, as Stanley’s caravan made camp, a small band of natives came past. When they heard where Stanley was leading his men they shook their heads and guaranteed the group was marching to its death unless it changed course. The land ahead had become Mirambo’s latest battlefield, and the warfare was intense.

One of the few times on his journey, Stanley actually took advice. He altered his course to Ujiji once again, choosing to push into rugged country to the north-west. The land was low-lying and riven with streams. Forests of mvule, sycamore and gigantic tamarind trees lined the water. Thick bushes and grass as tall as a man covered the ground. Stanley didn’t need to be told that lions and leopards lived in the tall grass. That was a given in Africa. But Africa delivered a reminder anyway. On their first day on the new course, walking a thin trail, a leopard attacked one of the donkeys. It leapt from a place of camouflage and dug its fangs into the donkey’s neck. Leopards are known for being fierce fighters, preferring to press an attack than back down. But the donkeys brayed so loudly in panic that the leopard fled.

The big cats came back again that night. As the New York
Herald
expedition sat around the fire, surrounded by their protective fencing of thorn bushes they’d arranged around the camp, a pride of lions surrounded them. All night long their low growls shook the camp. The porters were terrified. ‘Our camps by these thick belts of timber,’ Stanley wrote with understatement, ‘my men never fancied.’

Stanley thought the land was prettier by day than any he’d ever seen, comparing it with the golden hills of northern California. As they pushed on through the woodland, he marvelled that such a vast swathe of land was unpopulated. He predicted that eventually, once everywhere on earth was developed, mankind would return to Africa. He’d seen the same happen in California, and on the Great Plains. There was no reason Africa couldn’t be the scene of similar civilization.

That love affair came and went, depending upon
Stanley’s relationship with his men on any given day. He was tired of yelling at them, of enduring their laziness and always having to watch his back. He was tired, in a word, of being alone. ‘It is much the result of fatigue and monotony, every day being such a repetition of previous days,’ he wrote. There was an uncertainty to the days, too. Without villages at regular intervals, or a predictable supply of game, finding food was always a priority. Armies travel on their stomachs, and Stanley’s caravan was an extreme version of that maxim. His men were travelling great distances, carrying tremendous loads, over almost virgin terrain. Some days they had their bellies full, but sometimes their hunger slowed the caravan’s pace.