Into Africa: The Epic Adventures of Stanley & Livingstone (41 page)

As the miles passed, the caravan’s trail wound through a field of ten-foot-tall matete grass — elephant grass — which obscured their view of the lake but did nothing to slow the pace. ‘In a few minutes we shall have reached the spot where we imagine the objects of our search,’ he wrote of the last miles into Ujiji. ‘Our fate will soon be decided. No one in the town knows we are coming.’

When the caravan was just a mile outside of town,
Stanley ordered the colours raised and the men to begin announcing their arrival. He gave the order for every man to load his guns. ‘Commence firing,’ he roared, growing more nervous by the minute that he was on the verge of meeting Livingstone. What would happen? Would the veteran explorer run in the other direction? Would he be warm? Was there a possibility, as Kirk predicted, that he knew of their coming and had already left Ujiji?

‘The flags are fluttered, the banner of America is in front waving joyfully,’ Stanley wrote. The sound of muskets firing and horns blowing filled the air, punctuating the flag’s presence. ‘Never were the Stars and Stripes so beautiful in my mind.’

The residents of the town came pouring out to greet them. The arrival and departure of caravans was a regular fact of life in Ujiji, but there had been none for months due to the war with Mirambo. Stanley had blazed a new trail for the caravans to travel. He was no longer a journalist, writing about the actions of others. Henry Morton Stanley had become an explorer, with all the fame and glory that implied.

Even as Stanley strode into town, the emotions of surprise and happiness could be seen on the faces of the Arabs and locals alike. The Arabs pressed against him, shaking his hand and asking where he’d come from. ‘They were much astounded to find it to be a caravan,’ Stanley wrote, ‘and led by a white man.’

The whole time, Stanley anxiously surveyed the sea of faces for another white man’s. But there was none.

By the time Stanley made it into the heart of town thousands of people were pressed around the caravan. And though it was a triumphant moment, with all the fanfare Stanley’s phenomenal achievement deserved, he grew suddenly impatient. Livingstone was nowhere to be seen.

A young black man appeared at Stanley’s side and spoke to him in English. ‘How do you do, sir?’

‘Hello! Who the deuce are you?’

‘I am the servant of Dr Livingstone.’ It was Chuma, and
as soon as he uttered those intriguing words, he dashed off just as quickly as he appeared.

‘Joy,’ Stanley wrote in his journal. ‘Heart beat fast. I had to keep control over my emotions lest my face might betray them or detract from the dignity of a white man appearing under such circumstances. But what would I have given for a bit of friendly wilderness wherein I might vent my joy in some mad freaks, such as idiotically biting my hand, twirling a somersault, slashing at trees or something in order to purge these exciting feelings before appearing in the presence of Livingstone.’

Everything had come together for Stanley — his years of failure and rejection, his desperate underdog’s need to succeed at all costs, his hunger for a loving father figure. Stanley had waited a lifetime for a moment of such appreciation and validation. Now that it had come, the world spun off kilter, robbing him of the stern and angry facade with which he had driven across Africa. In its place was a humble young man, desperate to do and say the right thing when meeting one of the world’s greatest and most famous men. He wanted to appear smart and genteel, devoid of any pandering tone in his voice.

Minutes earlier, Livingstone had been sitting on the mud veranda of his small house, pondering his woeful future. His seat was a straw mat with a goatskin on top for cushioning. Behind his back, as he leaned against the hut’s mud wall, another goatskin was nailed. The skin kept him from getting a chill as he leaned back against the cold mud. Suddenly, he witnessed the unusual sight of Susi racing down the dirt street. ‘When my spirits were at their lowest ebb the Good Samaritan was close at hand, for one morning Susi came running at the top of his speed, and gasped out, “An Englishman! I see him!” and off he darted to meet him.’

Livingstone slowly rose. His doorway faced east, the direction from which the caravan was marching. Livingstone could see everything clearly. Above the throngs of people gathered to greet the incoming caravan, he saw the American flag snapping in the breeze. He
didn’t see a white man, but saw porters bearing an incredible assortment of goods: bales of cloth, huge kettles, cooking pots, tents. ‘This must be a luxurious traveller,’ Livingstone thought. ‘And not one at wit’s end like me.’

All the most prosperous Arabs stepped forth to greet Stanley, shielding him from Livingstone. They clamoured for news of Stanley’s path and war with Mirambo. But even in their excitement at the prospect of the trade route to the coast being reopened, the crowd began to part. Livingstone was pushing his way through, curious to see who the traveller might be.

What Livingstone saw was a tanned, gaunt young man whose hair was turning prematurely white from stress. His uniform was as crisp as could be expected, given the travel. His boots were well worn. His sun-beaten helmet had been cleaned. All in all, the man had such a formal bearing that, despite the Stars and Stripes, Livingstone assumed he was French. He hoped the traveller spoke English, because Livingstone didn’t speak French. He thought that they would be ‘a pretty pair of white men in Ujiji if neither spoke the other’s language’.

What Stanley saw was a pale white man wearing a sun-faded blue cap and red Jobo jacket like the Arabs. His clothing showed signs of being patched and repaired. The explorer’s hair was white, he had few teeth and his beard was bushy. He walked ‘with a firm but heavy tread’, as if stepping on thorns.

Stanley stepped crisply towards the old man, removed his helmet and extended his hand. Not counting the months between his great commission and the start of his journey, Stanley had come 975 miles in 236 days for the moment. They wordlessly shook hands, each man appraising the other. Livingstone didn’t know who the young man was, or what he might want. The Arabs and citizens of Ujiji crowded around.

According to Stanley’s journal it was 10 November 1871, a day that would change the world.

Stanley’s heart was beating furiously, and he was striving desperately to say exactly the right thing to such
a distinguished gentleman. Livingstone’s British background, though, gave Stanley great pause. He wasn’t sure whether or not he was welcome, how Livingstone would react, or whether he was about to be embarrassed in front of a large throng. But Stanley had not come across Africa to be denied.

With a grave formal intonation, representing America instead of his native Britain but trying to affect British gravity and trying to quiet that singsong Welsh flutter that crept in when he got excited, Stanley spoke the most dignified words that came to mind: ‘Dr Livingstone, I presume?’

‘Yes,’ Livingstone answered simply. He was relieved that the man wasn’t French.

‘I thank God, Doctor,’ Stanley said, appalled at how fragile Livingstone looked, ‘I have been permitted to see you.’

‘I feel thankful,’ Livingstone said with typical understatement, ‘I am here to welcome you.’

ON A FIFTY-TWO
degree autumn morning, under a black sky that would threaten rain all day long, Sir Roderick Murchison was laid to rest. A man of his stature could have been buried in Westminster Abbey or St Paul’s, but he preferred to be buried alongside his beloved Charlotte in Brompton Cemetery.

The end came into sight just two months earlier, when he suffered a second stroke that made him unable to speak or swallow. ‘He got better,’ as
The Times
noted, ‘and desired a trip into the outdoors.’ The man who had ridden to hounds as a country squire, trekked the Alps as a newly-wed and roamed the countrysides of England, Scotland and Russia in the name of geology went for a ride in his open-air carriage. During the drive he caught a cold. The cold became bronchitis. At eight thirty on the night of 22 October 1871, in his Belgrave Square mansion, Sir Roderick Impey Murchison’s life came to an end.

‘His zeal and energy in supporting the cause of his friend and fellow countryman,’
The Times
wrote in a two-column eulogy the next day, ‘and the persistent faith in his safety
which he has always felt and expressed when the most sanguine have been doubtful and downhearted, will long be remembered.’

A procession of thirteen mourning carriages left Belgrave Square at eleven thirty on the morning of 27 October, destined for Brompton Cemetery. Shortly before noon the procession entered the narrow archway marking the large cemetery’s north entrance and drove slowly to the site of the grave. The creak of carriage springs, the soft jangle of bridle and harness, and the
sotto voce
commands of carriage drivers to their horses announced their progress.

When the carriages reached Murchison’s burial site, Prime Minister William Gladstone and a host of geological and geographical dignitaries solemnly positioned themselves around the freshly dug grave. Murchison was a Conservative and Gladstone was the day’s eminent Liberal, but their mothers had known one another, and the two men had crossed paths for a lifetime. The death of such an old, esteemed acquaintance had a profound effect on Gladstone, making his own mortality more immediate. ‘Went to Sir R. Murchison’s funeral; the last of those who had known me or of me from infancy,’ Gladstone wrote thoughtfully in his journal that night. ‘And so a step towards the end is made visible.’

Of Murchison’s lions, only James Augustus Grant was at the graveside. Burton was nearly penniless, holed up in Howlett’s Hotel at 36 Manchester Street with Isabel, lobbying for another consular position after failing in Beirut. Instead of attending the funeral, Burton wrote a strident letter to
The Times
that ran the same day. Seven years after the Nile Duel, fourteen years after his journey with Speke, Burton ranted that Speke was getting too much credit for the exploration of Africa.

Fulfilling Murchison’s last wish, the Royal Geographical Society awarded him the gold medal for excellence in exploration as he lay dying. In his lifetime he had been knighted, made a baron, made a Knight of the Second Class of St Anne by Russia, made a member of the Order
of Stanislaus, given the Brisbane Gold Medal from Edinburgh, the Prix Cuvier from Paris and the Wollaston Gold Medal from the Geological Society of London. Sweden, Brazil, Denmark and Italy had honoured him. In all, nineteen stars, crosses and emblems of distinction had been awarded to Sir Roderick, the most ever given a man in modern times by crowned heads of state for purely scientific achievements. The gold medal, however, was the honour he cherished most of all. ‘This was the last distinction conferred on him,’ Sir Henry Rawlinson eulogized. ‘And he assured me that, looking on the Society almost as a child of his creation, he valued our humble tribute of admiration and respect above all the more brilliant trophies which filled his cabinet.’

Murchison did not live to see his favourite lion return. ‘With Livingstone his name was so identified’, Rawlinson said in his eulogy, ‘that when the great traveller returns — as return he assuredly will — the only feeling of regret will be that Sir Roderick will not be here to welcome him.’

Ironically, later review of the journals of Stanley and Livingstone showed that both men lost track of time due to their many illnesses. Their journals were off by days, and in Stanley’s case by as much as two weeks. The date on which Stanley actually found Livingstone was 27 October — the day Murchison was laid to rest. It was two years to the day since Bennett had bestowed the Great Commission upon Stanley.

Most startlingly, given that Murchison’s funeral ran from eleven in the morning until one-thirty in the afternoon, that Stanley met Livingstone late in the African morning, and that a two-hour time difference existed between Brompton Cemetery and Ujiji, Murchison finally rested in peace just after his long-lost friend was found.

Gladstone defined the day best: ‘It was a
great
funeral.’

Sir Roderick Impey Murchison
© Hulton-Deutsch Collection/CORBIS