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

pause, reader—the port of Ujiji is below us, embowered in the

palms, only five hundred yards from us!

At this grand moment we do not think of the hundreds of miles we

have marched, or of the hundreds of hills that we have ascended

and descended, or of the many forests we have traversed, or of the

jungles and thickets that annoyed us, or of the fervid salt plains

that blistered our feet, or of the hot suns that scorched us, nor

of the dangers and difficulties, now happily surmounted!

At last the sublime hour has arrived;—our dreams, our hopes, and

anticipations are now about to be realised! Our hearts and our

feelings are with our eyes, as we peer into the palms and try to

make out in which hut or house lives the “white man with the grey

beard” we heard about when we were at the Malagarazi.

“Unfurl the flags, and load your guns!”

“We will, master, we will, master!” respond the men eagerly.

“One, two, three,—fire!”

A volley from nearly fifty guns roars like a salute from a

battery of artillery : we shall note its effect presently on

the peaceful-looking village below.

“Now, kirangozi, hold the white man’s flag up high, and let the

Zanzibar flag bring up the rear. And you men keep close together,

and keep firing until we halt in the market-place, or before the

white man’s house. You have said to me often that you could smell

the fish of the Tanganika—I can smell the fish of the Tanganika

now. There are fish, and beer, and a long rest waiting for you.

MARCH!”

Before we had gone a hundred yards our repeated volleys had the

effect desired. We had awakened Ujiji to the knowledge that a

caravan was coming, and the people were witnessed rushing up in

hundreds to meet us. The mere sight of the flags informed every

one immediately that we were a caravan, but the American flag

borne aloft by gigantic Asmani, whose face was one vast smile on

this day, rather staggered them at first. However, many of the

people who now approached us, remembered the flag. They had seen

it float above the American Consulate, and from the mast-head of

many a ship in the harbor of Zanzibar, and they were soon heard

welcoming the beautiful flag with cries of “Bindera Kisungu!”—a

white man’s flag! “Bindera Merikani!”—the American flag!

Then we were surrounded by them: by Wajiji, Wanyamwezi, Wangwana,

Warundi, Waguhha, Wamanyuema, and Arabs, and were almost

deafened with the shouts of “Yambo, yambo, bana! Yambo, bana!

Yambo, bana!” To all and each of my men the welcome was given.

We were now about three hundred yards from the village of Ujiji,

and the crowds are dense about me. Suddenly I hear a voice on

my right say,

“Good morning, sir!”

Startled at hearing this greeting in the midst of such a crowd of

black people, I turn sharply around in search of the man, and see

him at my side, with the blackest of faces, but animated and

joyous—a man dressed in a long white shirt, with a turban of

American sheeting around his woolly head, and I ask:

“Who the mischief are you?”

“I am Susi, the servant of Dr. Livingstone,” said be, smiling,

and showing a gleaming row of teeth.

“What! Is Dr. Livingstone here?”

“Yes, sir.”

“In this village?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Are you sure?”

“Sure, sure, sir. Why, I leave him just now.””

“Good morning, sir,” said another voice.

“Hallo,” said I, “is this another one?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, what is your name?”

“My name is Chumah, sir.”

“What! are you Chumah, the friend of Wekotani?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And is the-Doctor well?”

” Not very well, sir.”

“Where has he been so long?”

“In Manyuema.”

“Now, you Susi, run, and tell the Doctor I am coming.”

“Yes, sir,” and off he darted like a madman.

But by this time we were within two hundred yards of the village,

and the multitude was getting denser, and almost preventing our

march. Flags and streamers were out; Arabs and Wangwana were

pushing their way through the natives in order to greet us, for

according to their account, we belonged to them. But the great

wonder of all was, “How did you come from Unyanyembe?”

Soon Susi came running back, and asked me my name; he had told

the Doctor I was coming, but the Doctor was too surprised to believe

him, and when the Doctor asked him my name, Susi was rather staggered.

But, during Susi’s absence, the news had been conveyed to the

Doctor that it was surely a white man that was coming, whose guns

were firing, and whose flag could be seen; and the great Arab

magnates of Ujiji—Mohammed bin Sali, Sayd bin Majid, Abid bin

Suliman, Mohammed bin Gharib, and others—had gathered together

before the Doctor’s house, and the Doctor had come out from his

veranda to discuss the matter and await my arrival.

In the meantime, the head of the Expedition had halted, and the

kirangozi was out of the ranks, holding his flag aloft, and Selim

said to me, “I see the Doctor, sir. Oh, what an old man! He has

got a white beard.” And I—what would I not have given for a bit

of friendly wilderness, where, unseen, I might vent my joy in some

mad freak, such as idiotically biting my hand; turning a somersault,

or slashing at trees, in order to allay those exciting feelings

that were well-nigh uncontrollable. My heart beats fast, but I must

not let my face betray my emotions, lest it shall detract from the

dignity of a white man appearing under such extraordinary circumstances.

So I did that which I thought was most dignified. I pushed back

the crowds, and, passing from the rear, walked down a living avenue

of people, until I came in front of the semicircle of Arabs, before

which stood the “white man with the grey beard.”

As I advanced slowly towards him I noticed he was pale, that he

looked wearied and wan, that he had grey whiskers and moustache,

that he wore a bluish cloth cap with a faded gold band on a red

ground round it, and that he had on a red-sleeved waistcoat, and a

pair of grey tweed trousers.

I would have run to him, only I was a coward in the presence of

such a mob—would have embraced him, but that I did not know how

he would receive me; so I did what moral cowardice and false pride

suggested was the best thing—walked deliberately to him, took off

my hat, and said:

“DR. LIVINGSTONE, I PRESUME?”

“Yes,” said he, with a kind, cordial smile, lifting his cap slightly.

I replaced my hat on my head, and he replaced his cap, and we

both grasped hands. I then said aloud:

“I thank God, Doctor, I have been permitted to see you.”

He answered, “I feel thankful that I am here to welcome you.”

I turned to the Arabs, took off my hat to them in response to the

saluting chorus of “Yambos” I received, and the Doctor introduced

them to me by name. Then, oblivious of the crowds, oblivious of

the men who shared with me my dangers, we—Livingstone and I—

turned our faces towards his house. He pointed to the veranda,

or rather, mud platform, under the broad overhanging eaves; he

pointed to his own particular seat, which I saw his age and

experience in Africa had suggested, namely, a straw mat, with a

goatskin over it, and another skin nailed against the wall to

protect his back from contact with the cold mud. I protested

against taking this seat, which so much more befitted him than I,

but the Doctor would not yield: I must take it.

We were seated—the Doctor and I—with our backs to the wall.

The Arabs took seats on our left. More than a thousand natives

were in our front, filling the whole square densely, indulging

their curiosity, and discussing the fact of two white men meeting

at Ujiji—one just come from Manyuema, in the west, the other from

Unyanyembe, in the east.

Conversation began. What about? I declare I have forgotten.

Oh! we mutually asked questions of one another, such as

“How did you come here?” and “Where have you been all this long

time?—the world has believed you to be dead. “Yes, that was the

way it began: but whatever the Doctor informed me, and that which

I communicated to him, I cannot correctly report, for I found myself

gazing at him, conning the wonderful figure and face of the man at

whose side I now sat in Central Africa. Every hair of his head

and beard, every wrinkle of his face, the wanness of his features,

and the slightly wearied look he wore, were all imparting

intelligence to me—the knowledge I craved for so much ever since

I heard the words, “Take what you want, but find Livingstone.”

What I saw was deeply interesting intelligence to me, and unvarnished

truth. I was listening and reading at the same time. What did these

dumb witnesses relate to me?

Oh, reader, had you been at my side on this day in Ujiji, how

eloquently could be told the nature of this man’s work! Had you

been there but to see and hear! His lips gave me the details; lips

that never lie. I cannot repeat what he said; I was too much

engrossed to take my note-book out, and begin to stenograph his story.

He had so much to say that he began at the end, seemingly oblivious

of the fact that five or six years had to be accounted for. But his

account was oozing out; it was growing fast into grand proportions—

into a most marvellous history of deeds.

The Arabs rose up, with a delicacy I approved, as if they intuitively

knew that we ought to be left to ourselves. I sent Bombay with them

to give them the news they also wanted so much to know about the

affairs at Unyanyembe. Sayd bin Majid was the father of the gallant

young man whom I saw at Masangi, and who fought with me at Zimbizo,

and who soon afterwards was killed by Mirambo’s RugaRuga in the

forest of Wilyankuru; and, knowing that I had been there, he

earnestly desired to hear the tale of the fight; but they had all

friends at Unyanyembe, and it was but natural that they should be

anxious to hear of what concerned them.

After giving orders to Bombay and Asmani for the provisioning of

the men of the Expedition, I called “Kaif-Halek,” or “How-do-ye-do,”

and introduced him to Dr. Livingstone as one of the soldiers in

charge of certain goods left at Unyanyembe, whom I had compelled

to accompany me to Ujiji, that he might deliver in person to his

master the letter-bag with which he had been entrusted. This was

that famous letter-bag marked “Nov. 1st, 1870,” which was now

delivered into the Doctor’s hands 365 days after it left Zanzibar!

How long, I wonder, had it remained at Unyanyembe had I not been

despatched into Central Africa in search of the great traveller?

The Doctor kept the letter-bag on his knee, then, presently, opened

it, looked at the letters contained there, and read one or two of

his children’s letters, his face in the meanwhile lighting up.

He asked me to tell him the news. “No, Doctor,” said I, “read your

letters first, which I am sure you must be impatient to read.”

“Ah,” said he,