How I Found Livingstone by Henry M. Stanley (trending books to read .txt) 📕

tired as Abdul Kader said he was of life, I was with Abdul Kader’s

worthlessness. But the Hindi did not want to be left in the

jungle, he said, but, after arriving in Unyanyembe. “Oh,” said I,

“then you must reach Unyanyembe first; in the meanwhile you will

carry those saddles there for the food which you must eat.”

As the march to Rubuga was eighteen and three-quarter miles, the

pagazis walked fast and long without resting.

Rubuga, in the days of Burton, according to his book, was a

prosperous district. Even when we passed, the evidences of wealth

and prosperity which it possessed formerly, were plain enough in

the wide extent of its grain fields, which stretched to the right

and left of the Unyanyembe road for many a mile. But they were

only evidences of what once were numerous villages, a well-cultivated and populous district, rich in herds of cattle and

stores of grain. All the villages are burnt down, the people have

been driven north three or four days from Rubuga, the cattle were

taken by force, the grain fields were left standing, to be

overgrown with jungle and rank weeds. We passed village after

village that had been burnt, and were mere blackened heaps of

charred timber and smoked clay; field after field of grain ripe

years ago was yet standing in the midst of a crop of gums and

thorns, mimosa and kolquall.

We arrived at the village, occupied by about sixty Wangwana,

who have settled here to make a living by buying and selling

ivory. Food is provided for them in the deserted fields of the

people of Rubuga. We were very tired and heated from the long

march, but the pagazis had all arrived by 3 p.m.

At the Wangwana village we met Amer bin Sultan, the very type of

an old Arab sheikh, such as we read of in books, with a snowy

beard, and a clean reverend face, who was returning to Zanzibar

after a ten years’ residence in Unyanyembe. He presented me with

a goat; and a goatskin full of rice; a most acceptable gift in a

place where a goat costs five cloths.

After a day’s halt at Rubuga, during which I despatched soldiers

to notify Sheikh Sayd bin Salim and Sheikh bin Nasib, the two chief

dignitaries of Unyanyembe, of my coming, on the 21st of June we

resumed the march for Kigwa, distant five hours. The road ran

through another forest similar to that which separated Tura from

Rubuga, the country rapidly sloping as we proceeded westward.

Kigwa we found to have been visited by the same vengeance which

rendered Rubuga such a waste.

The next day, after a three and a half hours’ rapid march, we

crossed the mtoni—which was no mtoni—separating Kigwa from

Unyanyembe district, and after a short halt to quench our thirst,

in three and a half hours more arrived at Shiza. It was a most

delightful march, though a long one, for its picturesqueness of

scenery which every few minutes was revealed, and the proofs we

everywhere saw of the peaceable and industrious disposition of the

people. A short half hour from Shiza we beheld the undulating

plain wherein the Arabs have chosen to situate the central depot

which commands such wide and extensive field of trade. The

lowing of cattle and the bleating of the goats and sheep were

everywhere heard, giving the country a happy, pastoral aspect.

The Sultan of Shiza desired me to celebrate my arrival in

Unyanyembe, with a five-gallon jar of pombe, which he brought

for that purpose.

As the pombe was but stale ale in taste, and milk and water in

colour, after drinking a small glassful I passed it to the delighted

soldiers and pagazis. At my request the Sultan brought a fine fat

bullock, for which he accepted four and a half doti of Merikani.

The bullock was immediately slaughtered and served out to the

caravan as a farewell feast.

No one slept much that night, and long before the dawn the fires

were lit, and great steaks were broiling, that their stomachs might

rejoice before parting with the Musungu, whose bounty they had so

often tasted. Six rounds of powder were served to each soldier and

pagazi who owned a gun, to fire away when we should be near the

Arab houses. The meanest pagazi had his best cloth about his

loins, and some were exceedingly brave in gorgeous Ulyah “Coombeesa

Poonga” and crimson “Jawah,” the glossy “Rehani,” and the neat

“Dabwani.” The soldiers were mustered in new tarbooshes, and the

long white shirts of the Mrima and the Island. For this was the

great and happy day which had been on our tongues ever since quitting

the coast, for which we had made those noted marches latterly—one

hundred and seventy-eight and a half miles in sixteen days,

including pauses—something over eleven miles a day

The signal sounded and the caravan was joyfully off with banners

flying, and trumpets and horns blaring. A short two and a half

hours’ march brought us within sight of Kwikuru, which is about

two miles south of Tabora, the main Arab town; on the outside of

which we saw a long line of men in clean shirts, whereat we opened

our charged batteries, and fired a volley of small arms such

as Kwikuru seldom heard before. The pagazis closed up and adopted

the swagger of veterans: the soldiers blazed away uninterruptedly,

while I, seeing that the Arabs were advancing towards me, left the

ranks, and held out my hand, which was immediately grasped by Sheikh

Sayd bin Salim, and then by about two dozen people, and thus our

entrée into Unyanyembe was effected.

CHAPTER VIII. MY LIFE AND TROUBLES DURING MY RESIDENCE IN UNYAS

NYEMBE. I BECOME ENGAGED IN A WAR.

I received a noiseless ovation as I walked side by side with the

governor, Sayd bin Salim, towards his tembe in Kwikuru, or the

capital. The Wanyamwezi pagazis were out by hundreds, the

warriors of Mkasiwa, the sultan, hovered around their chief, the

children were seen between the legs of their parents, even infants,

a few months old, slung over their mothers’ backs, all paid the

tribute due to my colour, with one grand concentrated stare. The

only persons who talked with me were the Arabs, and aged Mkasiwa,

ruler of Unyanyembe.

Sayd bin Salim’s house was at the north-western corner of the

inclosure, a stockaded boma of Kwikuru. We had tea made in a

silver tea-pot, and a bountiful supply of “dampers” were smoking

under a silver cover; and to this repast I was invited. When a

man has walked eight miles or so without any breakfast, and a hot

tropical sun has been shining on him for three or four hours, he is

apt to do justice to a meal, especially if his appetite is

healthy. I think I astonished the governor by the dexterous way

in which I managed to consume eleven cups of his aromatic

concoction of an Assam herb, and the easy effortless style with

which I demolished his high tower of “slap jacks,” that but a

minute or so smoked hotly under their silver cover.

For the meal, I thanked the Sheikh, as only an earnest and

sincerely hungry man, now satisfied, could thank him. Even if

I had not spoken, my gratified looks had well informed him, under

what obligations I had been laid to him.

Out came my pipe and tobacco-pouch.

“My friendly Sheikh, wilt thou smoke?”

“No, thanks! Arabs never smoke.”

“Oh, if you don’t, perhaps you would not object to me smoking,

in order to assist digestion?”

“Ngema—good—go on, master.”

Then began the questions, the gossipy, curious, serious, light

questions:

“How came the master?

“By the Mpwapwa road.”

“It is good. Was the Makata bad?”

“Very bad.”

“What news from Zanzibar?”

“Good; Syed Toorkee has possession of Muscat, and Azim bin Ghis

was slain in the streets.”

“Is this true, Wallahi?” (by God.)

“It is true.”

“Heh-heh-h! This is news!”—stroking his beard.

“Have you heard, master, of Suleiman bin Ali?”

“Yes, the Bombay governor sent him to Zanzibar, in a

man-of-war, and Suleiman bin Ali now lies in the gurayza (fort).”

“Heh, that is very good.”

“Did you have to pay much tribute to the Wagogo?”

“Eight times; Hamed Kimiani wished me to go by Kiwyeh, but I

declined, and struck through the forest to Munieka. Hamed and

Thani thought it better to follow me, than brave Kiwyeh by

themselves.”

“Where is that Hajji Abdullah (Captain Burton) that came here,

and Spiki?” (Speke.)

“Hajji Abdullah! What Hajji Abdullah? Ah! Sheikh Burton we call

him. Oh, he is a great man now; a balyuz (a consul) at El Scham”

(Damascus.)

“Heh-heh; balyuz! Heh, at El Scham! Is not that near Betlem

el Kuds?” (Jerusalem.)

“Yes, about four days. Spiki is dead. He shot himself by

accident.”

“Ah, ah, Wallah (by God), but this is bad news. Spiki dead?

Mash-Allah! Ough, he was a good man—a good man! Dead!”

“But where is this Kazeh, Sheikh Sayd?”

Kazeh? Kazeh? I never heard the name before.”

“But you were with Burton, and Speke, at Kazeh; you lived

there several months, when you were all stopping in Unyanyembe;

it must be close here; somewhere. Where did Hajji Abdullah and

Spiki live when they were in Unyanyembe? Was it not in Musa

Mzuri’s house?”

“That was in Tabora.”

“Well, then, where is Kazeh? I have never seen the man yet who

could tell me where that place is, and yet the three white men

have that word down, as the name of the place they lived at when

you were with them. You must know where it is.”

“Wallahi, bana, I never heard the name; but stop, Kazeh, in

Kinyamwezi, means ‘kingdom.’ Perhaps they gave that name to the

place they stopped at. But then, I used to call the first house

Sny bin Amer’s house, and Speke lived at Musa Mzuri’s house, but

both houses, as well as all the rest, are in Tabora.”

“Thank you, sheikh. I should like to go and look after my

people; they must all be wanting food.”

“I shall go with you to show you your house. The tembe is in

Kwihara, only an hour’s walk from Tabora.”

On leaving Kwikuru we crossed a low ridge, and soon saw Kwihara

lying between two low ranges of hills, the northernmost of which

was terminated westward by the round fortress-like hill of Zimbili.

There was a cold glare of intense sunshine over the valley,

probably the effect of an universal bleakness or an autumnal

ripeness of the grass, unrelieved by any depth of colour to vary

the universal sameness. The hills were bleached, or seemed to be,

under that dazzling sunshine, and clearest atmosphere. The corn

had long been cut, and there lay the stubble, and fields,—a browny-white expanse; the houses were of mud, and their fiat roofs were of

mud, and the mud was of a browny-whiteness; the huts were thatched,

and the stockades around them of barked timber, and these were of

a browny whiteness. The cold, fierce, sickly wind from the mountains

of Usagara sent a deadly chill to our very marrows, yet the intense

sunshiny glare never changed, a black cow or two, or a tall tree

here and there, caught the eye for a moment, but they never made

one forget that the first impression of Kwihara was as of a picture

without colour, or of food without taste; and if one looked up,

there was a sky of a pale blue, spotless, and of