CHAPTER XXXVI
The Penetration of Africa
1
166.
Meeting of Stanley and Livingstone
1
We push on rapidly, lest the news of our coming might reach
the people of Bunder Ujiji before we come in sight, and are
ready for them. We halt at a little brook, then ascend the long
slope of a naked ridge, the very last of the myriads we have
crossed. This alone prevents us from seeing the lake in all its
vastness. We arrive at the summit, travel across and arrive at
its western rim, and — 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, of the hundreds of hills that we have ascended
and descended, of the many forests we have traversed, of the
jungles and thickets that annoyed us, of the fervid salt plains
that blistered our feet, of the hot suns that scorched us, nor 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 realized! 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
gray beard we heard about on the Malagarazi.
"Unfurl the flags, and load your guns"!
"Ay Wallah, ay Wallah, bana"! 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 Tanganyika — I can smell the
fish of the Tanganyika 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 masthead 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! . . .
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 . . . had
gathered together before the doctor’s house, and the doctor had
come out from his veranda to discuss the matter and wait 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." . . . As I advanced slowly
toward him I noticed he was pale, looked wearied, had a gray
beard, wore a bluish cap with a faded gold band round it, had
on a red-sleeved waistcoat, and a pair of gray tweed trousers.
I would have run to him, only I was a coward in the presence of
such a mob- would have embraced him, only, he being an
Englishman, I did not know how he would receive me; so I did
what 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 smile, lifting his cap slightly.
I replace my hat on my head, and he puts on his cap, and we
both grasp hands, and I then say 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 turn to the Arabs, take off my hat to them in response to the
saluting chorus of "Yambos" I receive, and the doctor introduces
them to me by name. Then, oblivious of the crowds,
oblivious of the men who shared with me my dangers, we — Livingstone
and I- turn our faces toward his tembe. He
points to the veranda, or, rather, mud platform, under the
broad overhanging eaves; he points to his own particular seat,
which I see his age and experience in Africa has 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 protest against taking this seat, which so much
more befits him than me, but the doctor will not yield: I must
take it.
We are seated — the doctor and I — with our backs to the
wall. The Arabs take seats on our left. More than a thousand
natives are 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 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 marvelous
history of deeds.
1 Sir Henry M. Stanley, . London, 1872. Sampson
Low, Marston, Low, and Searle. . New York, 1878.
2 vols. Harper and Brothers. . New York, 1890. 2 vols.
Charles Scribner’s Sons.
1 Stanley, , pp. 407–413.