The End of the Trail

“ ' A Quixotic scheme! ¹ some will say. Not it, my friends 1 For as sure as the sun shines on both Christian and Infidel, the day of enlightenment will come; and though the Apostle of Africa may not behold it himself, the Hereafter will see it, and posterity will recognise the daring pioneer of its civilisation.

(H. M. Stanley.)

O-MORROW night, Doctor, you will

be alone.”

“ Yes; the house will look as though a death had taken place.”

Stanley was making a last effort to persuade Livingstone to come with him. But when he found it was no use whatever he gave half of his stores to his friend, and, promising to send him up help from Zanzibar, Bula Matali said good-bye to Baba Daud.

At Zanzibar Stanley met the search-party which had left England earlier in the year, and which had been organised at the incentive of Livingstone’s old friend, Sir Roderick Murchison. As we saw, the Geographical Society had partially financed this expedition, and it was under the command of Lieutenants Dawson and Henn. Sir Roderick himself died before the expedition sailed for Africa.

Stanley came upon the party as a complete surprise. They had no idea that anyone else had been looking for Livingstone; and relieved as they were to hear good news of the Doctor, it came as a distinct shock that their own carefully organised expedition was now of no further use. The leaders of the party at once abandoned the enterprise, and made arrangements for their stores to be sent on to Livingstone at Ujiji. It was a terrible disappointment to one of the expedition, Oswell Livingstone. He was barely twenty, and rather a delicate boy, but full of pluck and enthusiasm. He could not bear to think of giving up the journey to Ujiji, and tried hard to persuade the others to go on. Failing in this, he said he would go on alone and find his father. However, common-sense prevailed in the end, and Oswell gave in. It was, of course, no use continuing the expedition, for Stanley assured them that Doctor Livingstone was perfectly safe and in no need of help. And for a boy like Oswell to go on alone, along a route that had taxed the powers even of a Hercules like Stanley, would be sheer madness. So that was the end of that matter.

As for the Doctor himself, when he found himself alone once more, and well supplied with the stores Stanley had given him, he made up his mind to be off again on his travels. With all the old boyish eagerness he set out to find the sources of the Nile. Just this one effort more and then he would go home! He was determined to succeed this time. But September, 1872, found him once more utterly prostrated by sickness and fatigue. He suffered dreadful agony at times, and yet he set his teeth and forced himself to travel on. It is possible that Livingstone may have been suffering from some form of sleeping sickness. The well-known modern doctor, Dr Sander, thinks so. But it is more likely that his sickness was malaria, that fatal African fever that has killed so many explorers.

The country round Lake Bangweolo was one huge sponge. Day after day he and his men struggled on through the marshes, sometimes up to their chins in water; the rain came down without ceasing from a dull grey sky. When he was too weak to walk or ride his men made a kitanda, or stretcher, to carry him on. In the deeper water one of the porters would take him on his shoulders; and then often enough he would trip in the print of an elephant’s huge foot and give the sick man a thorough wetting.

In spite of everything, Livingstone’s Journal has most amusing entries in it every day of this awful journey. All through the pain and discomfort he noted every beast and bird, and made entries about each place of interest they arrived at. But gradually the writing in the diary becomes more and more shaky, and the entries shorter, as the hand that held the pencil grew weaker and weaker. 27th April 1873 was the last date Livingstone ever wrote—and opposite it are the words: “ Knocked up quite, and remain = recover. Sent to buy milch-goats. We are on the banks of the River Molilamo.” One can guess what an effort it was to trace the words. The Zulus had cleared that distressful country of anything so valuable as a milchgoat; so Livingstone, prostrated with dysentery, had to try and eat pounded millet seed and nuts. What an awful meal for a sick man He was now in such pain that he could not face the ordeal of being carried to his kitanda outside the hut; but Livingstone was determined to go on. He told his men to tear down one side of the grass hut and bring the litter close up to his bed. Then he was gently lifted on to the kitanda and borne out of the village. When they reached the banks of the River Lulimalo, the mattress was placed in a big canoe, and with infinite pains his men lifted their master on board, and after they had crossed the stream carried him once more in his litter towards Tshitambo’s village. He was unconscious when they entered the little village now known as Old Chitono, and rain was beginning to fall. Some of his men had hurried on to Tshitambo’s village to prepare a hut for the sick man; but, not finding one suitable for him, they had to build a new one of grass and sticks. Until this hut was ready for their master Livingstone’s men thought it better to halt for the moment at Old Chitono. As there was a hut close by the pathway, and it was now raining hard, they laid the kitanda down under the broad leaves of this hut. In a short time news came that all was ready at Tshitambo’s village, and Livingstone was carried there by his men. He was quite unconscious, and it almost seemed as if he had left them already; but when they had placed him on the rough bed in the new hut he recovered consciousness, and his two faithful black fellows, Susi and Chumah, did what they could for him.

“ No man is a hero to his valet,” runs the proverb; but it was not at all a true one in the case of David Livingstone. If a traveller in Africa has weaknesses his native followers know of them; they are exceedingly shrewd judges of character. It is true they are most of them just big, grown-up children; but they have the child’s disconcerting gift of seeing into the heart of a man and knowing what stuff he is made of. Those amusing nicknames, for instance, which natives of Africa give to a white man are astonishingly clever, and hit off the man “to a T.” It is safe to say that no explorer has ever been so genuinely loved by his native servants as Baba Daud was. It was not merely that they admired his courage and appreciated his friendly humour; but they knew him for the simple, great-hearted man he was, and would go through fire and water for him.

Susi was a Shupanga man and had been with Livingstone for more than thirteen years. He had been one of the woodcutters on board the little Pioneer. His dark face was a good deal lined, and was slightly marked by small-pox. Chumah was a much younger man, and belonged to a different tribe. He had been a slave boy, and Livingstone had rescued him in 1861, and had taken him with him in the adventurous voyage to Bombay in the Lady Nyassa. Chumah’s skin was of a light chocolate hue, several shades lighter than Susi’s, and his quick, vivacious character could be seen by his merry bright eyes. He admired his older, graver friend enormously, and looked up to him in everything.

As Livingstone lay in the hut at Tshitambo’s village these faithful fellows nursed him as tenderly as women.

It is a pathetic picture we have of Chumah bending over the grass bed, holding his master’s watch carefully in his big black paw while the dying man wound it for the night with trembling fingers. Two of the Nassick boys, Abraham and Mabruki, who had stuck to their post when the other negroes deserted, were also with him to the last; and so were Majiwara, and Susi’s and Chumah’s Manyema wives, Halima and Ntoaika. All their names deserve to be remembered.

The chief of Ilala, Tshitambo, came to visit Livingstone, but he was too weak to do more than smile to his visitor as he stood beside the rough bed. As the hours wore on Livingstone’s mind began to wander, and his thoughts flew to that mysterious river which he believed was one of the sources of the Nile. He did not know that in finding that river he had really made one of his greatest discoveries for the world. For it is in reality the Upper Congo, and he had opened a way down the second largest river in Africa. Stanley completed the work that fell from his dying hand, and to-day great steamships ply up and down that vast waterway, and the Congo district is one of the richest countries in all Africa.

Livingstone’s thoughts dwelt constantly on the River Luapula as he lay there helpless in the darkness of the hut.

“ Is this the Luapula? ” he asked. “ How many days to the Luapula River? ” When Susi replied, “ I think it is three days off from here, master,” Livingstone answered, with a weary sigh: “Oh dear, dear! ” Then he roused himself a little and told Susi to put some calomel beside him, and a little water in a cup, and sent the natives away for the night.

The boy Majiwara slept in the hut with Livingstone, but at four o’clock next morning he suddenly awoke, and, creeping towards his master’s bed, he discovered that the sick man no longer lay where they had placed him. Majiwara rushed out to fetch the others, and with four of the men re-entered the hut and lit a candle. By its flickering light they saw Livingstone kneeling by the side of the bed, and something in his attitude as he knelt, with head bent forward in his hands, told them at once that their master had been taken from them. It was May morning, 1873, that David Livingstone passed away.

He had for a long time known quite well that it would be in some such manner that the end of the march would come; and he had his own very strong convictions about that other life to which he would soon be called. “ There will be work there as well as here,” he said to his friend, Sir Thomas Maclear, “and possibly not such a vast difference in our being as is expected.” And so we can think of David Livingstone speeding forth from the dark hut at Ilala to the work God had for him to do Elsewhere. Not a doubt of it, it was a real voyage of discovery. His tired body lay in the African wilderness—but his soul went marching on.

It would be hard to find anything finer in the story of Africa than the way in which Livingstone’s devoted men behaved after his death. They determined at once to carry the body of their master to the coast. When the chief Tshitambo heard of their plan he was quite prepared to help them, and the poor fellows collected amongst themselves a big present for the chief, to pay for proper funeral rites. Nothing could be more pathetic than the picture of the native boy Jacob trying to read the Prayer Book over the body of his master, while the African chief and his men, carrying bows and arrows, stood around, and the “ mourners ” raised their weird keening for the dead. Then Livingstone’s men gave him the last salute with their guns, and the body was carried to a hut they had built outside the village, about ten minutes’ tramp from Tshitambo’s. Round the hut they built a strong stockade to keep off the wild beasts, and there they prepared the body of their master.

The body was embalmed with salt and brandy, and afterwards dried for fourteen days in the sun, the men guarding it all the time. Then they wrapped it closely in calico and enclosed it in a rough cylinder of bark this again being swathed in sail-cloth and lashed securely to a pole, so that it might be borne on the shoulders of two men.

The heart of Livingstone they placed in a tin box and buried it deep in the centre of the little settlement. Tshitambo, the chief, promised the men to preserve the spot as sacred. and faithfully kept his word. When he came to die himself his people buried him on the other side of the great tree under which lies the heart of Livingstone.

In 1915, forty-two years afterwards, the place was visited by the last of Livingstone’s children. Mrs Livingstone-Wilson found the village of Old Tshitambo (or Chitambo) was now quite deserted and overgrown. In fact, no trace of its site can now be seen beyond a slight thinning in the bush where once the little settlement stood. Over the grave itself stands the tall monument, surmounted by a cross, which was raised some years ago to Livingstone’s memory. Livingstone’s daughter, as she stood there, was “ impressed with the sense of stillness and deep peace of the surroundings where his heart is buried.” “ I could not help feeling,” she said, in a letter to the present writer, “that it was the kind of place where he would have chosen to lie, entirely— not simply the weary heart.”

When all was ready Livingstone’s men set out on the long journey of more than a thousand miles to the coast. At Kwihara they met the other Livingstone Search Expedition sent out by the Geographical Society under command of Lieutenant Cameron, R.N. From the first this second expedition had been unfortunate. Everyone of the party had suffered from fever; and a grandson of Dr Moffat, who was with them, died of fever at an early stage of the journey. Dr Dillon, another of the party, committed suicide while in the delirium of fever. Cameron and his friends strongly urged Susi and Chumah to bury the body of Livingstone at Kwihara, as they thought it would be next to impossible to carry it through the dangerous Ugogo country. But nothing could persuade the faithful fellows to give up their task. They were absolutely determined to carry their master’s body to the coast. Lieutenant Cameron set out alone to Ujiji to see if he could discover any further papers of Livingstone, and the rest of his party returned home.

As for Susi and Chumah and the others, they continued their march to the coast. At the village of Kasekera the people tried to prevent their passing through, Africans having a peculiar horror of the dead. But Susi and Chumah thought of an ingenious ruse. They cut faggots of mapira stalks and swathed them in cloth to look like their burden; and this they sent back by two of their number in the opposite direction. Then Susi and Chumah carried on Livingstone’s body at dead of night, and were soon rejoined by their companions.

Nearly nine months after Livingstone’s death, and after the most unheard-of exertions, those faithful creatures carried their master’s body into Bagamoio. A cruiser had just Q arrived from Zanzibar, and they handed over their burden to the British consul on board.

One of the most extraordinary points in the whole story is the way in which those poor fellows were treated at the end of their heroic journey. Livingstone’s body was taken from them without a word of thanks or a question as to their adventures. Susi and Chumah just turned away when all was over, and no one inquired or cared what became of them. But when the body reached England, and the whole story became known, James Young of Kelly sent over at his own expense to East Africa to fetch Susi and Chumah to England. There they stayed at the house of the Reverend Horace Waller, Vicar of Twywell, while he was collecting material to edit Livingstone’s Last Journals, and were able to give him the details about their master’s last few weeks on earth, which otherwise would have been lost for ever. They paid a visit to Scotland later in the year, and in the grounds at Kelly they built an exact model of the Ilala hut where David Livingstone passed away.

On their way north Mr Waller brought Susi and Chumah to Newstead Abbey to see Livingstone’s friends, Mr and Mrs Webb. Agnes and Tom Livingstone were also at the Abbey, and the two faithful black fellows attached themselves in a very special manner to their master’s son. Mrs Fraser, who was one of the party, describes Susi’s and Chumah’s appearance during their visit to Newstead. They were dressed in very thick reefer jackets, with bright round buttons, and blue serge trousers, and they felt the cold very keenly after the African sun. Chumah’s sharp eyes noted everything he saw in his new surroundings, and often made very quaint remarks about anything that happened to strike him. One of the guests puzzled him, and he confided to Tom Livingstone that the “ flour on the face of the old English lady ” was a woeful waste of good food. It was the first time Chumah had seen powder.

Many of her father’s things had been sent home, and were in Agnes’ possession at Newstead. Among them were the Last Journal, the consular cap and sword, and a spear-head which had been treacherously thrown at Livingstone and nearly cost him his life. Susi and Chumah were very useful in identifying these and other relics of Livingstone. They soon returned to Africa, and one wonders where they settled and what became of those men. Their names deserve to be remembered always for the fine deed they did.

The ship Malwa, which bore Livingstone’s body back to England, touched at Alexandria, and there Tom Livingstone came on board. They reached Southampton on 15th April 1874, and were met by a P. & O. tug-boat, on board which were Oswell Livingstone, Stanley and Dr Moffat, while minute-guns were fired from the battery on the shore, and the church bells rang a muffled peal.

On reaching London the body was taken to the Royal Geographical Society’s rooms in Savile Row, where it lay in state, and was there identified by Sir William Ferguson, the famous surgeon. There was no possibility of a mistake; for not only was “ the false joint ” on the fractured left arm, where the lion had mauled it, clearly visible, but the features of the great explorer were wonderfully little changed. Both William Oswell and William Webb, although it was a duty that terribly distressed them both, travelled up to town to look for the last time at the face of their friend. Oswell brought home with him a lock of Livingstone’s hair, dark brown still, scarcely tinged with grey.

Three days later Westminster Abbey was crowded in every part to witness the funeral of the greatest African explorer and missionary who ever lived. Mrs Oswell and Lady Augusta Stanley watched the procession from “ the leads ” as it approached the Abbey. The sea of heads and train of carriages filled Broad Sanctuary, and, as Mrs Oswell said, represented every grade of life, from the Queen to the humblest crossing-sweeper. “ The cumulated feeling was deeply moving.” Among the eight pall-bearers were Kirk and Oswell and William Webb. At their head marched Stanley, and beside him the native servant Jacob, who represented those faithful black followers whose devotion had restored Livingstone’s body to his own countrymen. Perhaps they were the greatest evidence of Livingstone’s work. He had shown the world what fine hearts are there to be won in Darkest Africa.

His own heart lies buried in Ilala, which is now the central spot in the new British Africa of to-day. The cruel slave raider is seen there no more. There are mission stations dotted over the whole land. Men whose fathers shot poisoned arrows at the pioneer now farm a prosperous country, or help to lay down the iron rails which connect Central Africa with the busy modern world. Where the witches were burned at Likoma there is a Christian church. On the site of the slave market at Zanzibar stands a great cathedral. And what Africa needs now, and always, are men of the Livingstone spirit. This great war has been teaching us many things; it has made us all want “to do our bit.” It has bound the whole Empire together in one tremendous resolve to fight for justice and liberty at whatever cost to ourselves. And so we understand better what David Livingstone fought for, and in Whose service he laid down his life.

Our story is done; and yet no doubt our readers will naturally want to know a little more about some of the characters whom they have learnt to know and to like so well between the covers of this book.

There is Charles Livingstone, for instance the “ Charlie ” of the salmon incident in the first chapter. As we saw, Charles joined his brother in Africa and went with him on more than one of his expeditions in the Zambesi district. After we lost sight of him, his adventurous spirit carried him to America, and he eventually became H.M. Consul at Fernando Po, the vast districts of Benin and Briafra being also added to his consulship. He had great influence among the chiefs, and persuaded them to abolish many cruel customs. But Africa called Charles Livingstone back to her, just as she called David Livingstone, and as she always does call her old lovers back to her in the end. In 1873, the same year that his great brother passed away, Charles died at Lagos of African fever.

As for M’Tutla, Livingstone’s constant friend —William Frederick Webb—Africa called him back, too, at the last. Had he chosen to accept it, he might have remained in Africa as Governor of Natal. The position was practically offered to him, and it was the sorest trial of his life to refuse it; but he felt that duty compelled him to come home to Newstead and make a home for his children in the old country. One day his daughter and he came across his old African kit, which had for many long years lain hidden in the drawer of an antique cabinet. “ He took out the faded red shirt and crackers, and handled—I might almost say caressed them, with tears in his eyes.” “ He told me,” writes his daughter, “ how happy he had been when he wore them last.” In Mrs Webb’s last illness he and she went back to Africa once more, and the healing air of the Karoo seemed for a time to give her real relief. Then after her death at Weinberg, near Cape Town, he went for a long voyage round the world. But “ Africa was his last love, as it had been his first,” and it was there he returned in the end. He died at Luxor in 1899, and, like Livingstone, he has an African grave.

Rather more than a year after the beginning of the Great War a German flag, captured in the East African expedition by the late Major Webb of the Legion of Frontiersmen, was unfurled at Newstead Abbey. It hangs there now in the hall, beside many other trophies of Livingstone’s Africa—a witness that the true spirit of M’Tutla lives there still.

And so we come to Tlaga—the closest and perhaps the greatest of Livingstone’s friends. William Cotton Oswell, the mighty hunter, was the only one of that adventurous brotherhood who never returned to Africa. In his beautiful home, Hillside, on the borders of Kent and Sussex, he found his interests in his gardens, his horses and his dogs, and above all in his own boys, whom he brought up to honour the name of Livingstone, to ride straight and to tell the truth. Sir Samuel Baker only said of Oswell what everyone who saw him felt to be true: “ All those who knew him regarded him as without a rival, and certainly without an enemy—the greatest hunter known in modern times, the truest friend, and the most thorough example of an English gentleman.”

Although his duty kept him at home, he lived almost as active and athletic a life as if he had stayed in Africa with Livingstone. Like Lord Roberts, “ he kept himself fit ” in case he might be needed anywhere. Early one morning he heard voices in the orchard beneath his bedroom window, and, throwing on some clothes, he rushed down to see who was stealing his fruit. Three men made off in different directions; they were all three young men, and he was fifty years old—and yet Oswell chased and ran down each of the three in turn.

His son tells another story of him a good many years later. 44

Found it a tidy load, didn’t you? ’ inquired a carman, as his mate rejoined him after helping to carry a grand piano into the house. ⁴ ’Tain’t likely, is it? ’ was the reply. ⁴ The master come my end, and you may ’pend upon it he took all the weight hisself.’ The master was then seventy-two! ”

“ I pray God not to allow me to outlive my muscles and my brain,” he said only a few weeks before his death. And that prayer was answered, for when he passed away in 1893 at the age of seventy-five his eye was not dim nor his natural force abated. Like his friend Livingstone, he died on May Day. His favourite motto was the old Latin rhyme that all schoolboys will recognise, but which one seems to understand more clearly when one reads of such men as Oswell and Livingstone:

“ Non per sylvas sed per castra Nobis iter est ad astra /”

It will always be the motto of all boys, big and little, who try to follow in their footsteps to-day

“ Onward and upward—for men of true stamp

The way lies not by the glides, but the Camp! ’

(R. B. D.)

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ROMANCE OF MODERN ASTRONOMY

Bv HECTOR MACFHERSON, Junior With Thirty-two Illustrations and Diagrams. Extra Grown 8vo. bt.

“ Simply and clearly written. It Is a perfect book for a sohool library. Great care, taste and learning; bare bee* expended oh tha pictures. The best of a very useful and well-written series.” Manchester Guardian.

“The illustrations are' exceedingly good.... An excellent compendium of the roost interesting facts in astronomy, told in popular language.” Athencru/m.

“ Described with the utmost clearness, and even with charm.”—Daily Graphic.

“This work should greatly appeal to any young student of the subject by its lucid and picturesque language.” Field.

THE ROMANCE OF THE SHIP

THK STORY OF HER ORIGIN AND EVOLUTIOM FROM THB EARLIEST TIMES Bt E. KEBLE CHATTERTON, B.A. (Oxon.)

Author of “ Sailing Ships and their Story," Sro. fra.

With Thirty-three Illustration* ti

“ Entertaining and instructive.” Spectator.

"A fascinating volume full of information and stirring incident.” Queen. “A very delightful story of the evolution of the ship,” Sheffield Telegraph. “ A veritable mine of information and instruction.” Standard.

THE ROMANCE OF AERONAUTICS

AM INTERESTING ACCOUNT OF THE GROWTH AND ACHIEVEMENT!

OF ALL KINDS OF AERIAL CRAFT
By CHARLES C. TURNER
Holder of th< Royal Asre Society’s Aviation CerMlleate,

Author of “Aerial Navigation of To-day," ire. ire.

With Fifty-two Illustrations and Diagrams. Extra Grown, 8vo. 6

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“ A capital survey by an expert writer.” Guardian.

“ Brightly written, exceptionally well illustrated, and shows a duo regard for historical accuracy.” Aeronautics.

“A most interesting book.” Spectator.

“ A most complete history... told with lucidity and enthusiasm, and brimful of interest.” Truth.

“ Sot forth with a persuasive and accomplished pen.”—Pall Mall Gazette.

SEELEY, SERVICE ^6* CO. LIMITED

JAMES HANNINGTON

FIRST BISHOP OF EASTERN EQUATORIAL AFRICA

A HISTORY OF HIS LIFE & WORE

By the Rev. E. C. DAWSON, M.A.

or BT. MAST'S OATHKDELAL, IDUnrUH

With Portrait and Illustrations after the Bishop’s Own

Sketches

Cretan 8*e, Cloth, 3*. fid. Cheaper Edition, Papsr Boards, 2s. 6d.

" We doubt whether a nobler or more pathetic story has ever been told in biography.” Athenmum.

“ To say that the book is one of deep interest is bat feebly to express the wonderful charm that it has for the reader. For dignity and grace ef diction the voluma is far superior to the general ran of memoirs.”

Record. “A tale of thrilling interest—of trial, hardship, siekneis, peril bravsly borne: and ending in a cruel death. A story im the beet cense of the words full of edification.” Saturday Review.

V * *

LION-HEARTED

THE STORY OF BISHOP HANNINGTON’s LIT*

TOLD FOR BOYS 6* GIRLS

By the Rey. CANON DAWSON

Largs Crown 8vo, with Frontispiece in Colours, and othor Illustrations, Baudsomt Cloth, 2s. 6d. Chtapsr Edition, with Illustrations,

Cloth, Is. M.

•• We heartily weloome the volume. The career of James Hannington is just one of those which strongly nore young people, and Mr. Dawson baa fulfilled a very useful task. Mr. Dawson has adapted the narrative very successfully to the capacities of young people, and some excellent illustrations are provided.” Record.

V 9 V

SEELEY, SERVICE 6- CO. LIMITED

Date Due

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