CHAPTER XXI.
LIVINGSTONIA.
An ill wind again—Desolation—The man with the red umbrella—“ All
dead; all gone! ”—Searching the deserted town—“ It was the white
man who lied! ’’---Shattered hopes—A letter to da Costa—Plight of the
Angoni—Days of solitude—Mara’s pessimism—The races of Nyassa—
Fashions—Huts—No tsetse fly—Supplies exhausted—Mara has a full
stomach—Teeth filing and tattoo marks—An odd cup of milk—The
“ look-out” on the lake—Fishes—A sick chief; medicine wanted—
Doctoring the invalid—My patient a faithful follower of Livingstone—
“All men are liars ”—Mara’s boon companions—Hard fare—Dysentery
—Hlucky natives—Stalking a dove—The stomach very near the heart
—A sail!—Animal companions—Missionary sacrifice—The spirit of
philanthropy—The spirit of the Church—Saddened thoughts—
“ Mzungo, Mzungo! ”—“ Steamer ahoy! ”—The grasp of a white
man’s hand.
I t w a s n i g h t , a n d , i n a d e e p r e v e r i e , I s a t o n a l o n g b e n c h
w a t c h i n g a n i n c h o f c a n d l e b u r n i n g s l o w l y w a y . T h e s u r r
o u n d i n g s w e r e f o u r w h i t e w a s h e d w a l l s h e a v i l y d r a p e d w i t h
c o b w e b s , f o r I w a s i n t h e d e s e r t e d h o m e o f a m i s s i o n a r y .
The silent scene formed a striking contrast to my exciting
experiences among the savages of TJrongwe. But disappointment
again! I seemed to have been smitten by the
bitterest blast that could give the lie to the venerable
adage “ I t ’s an ill wind that blows nobody good.”
Again and again I thought of the day’s proceedings, and
every incident that had occurred was re-enacted in meditation.
Above all I remembered the feeling of surprise when
walking up the beach followed by a motley crowd of blacks.
I only viewed the cheerless sight of abandoned houses
which lined the streets. In a moment all my long-cherished
hopes—the hopes that had chiefly cheered me in protracted
adversity—that I would be welcomed with the smile of a
British face and the warm grasp of a British hand, were
dashed to the ground! Every bright anticipation was
cruelly obliterated. I had walked along the lonely street
looking in vain for the White Man! Deserted houses
appeared on every hand. A few sad-looking tombstones
half buried by rank vegetation added to the gloom of the
view, the long creepers coiling and drooping to emphasise
the sorrow. Nature, mankind’s only true friend, never
forgets. The vicissitudes I had passed through of late had
certainly been many and varied; but this last unlooked-
for experience put every former affliction entirely in the
shade.
Even the most sombre scenes and the saddest experiences
have comical sides, and in this instance I remembered the
appearance of the odd creature with the red umbrella.
Disappointment had not been wanting in its share of
comedy. When I stepped ashore I proceeded with the
greatest confidence towards the brilliant umbrella, being
fully convinced that it was the grateful shelter of some
Christian divine, but on nearing the emblem of civilisation
I found a very black and sorrowful-looking individual under
the tattered and torn gingham.
This melancholy mortal could speak a few words of
broken English, so that when I inquired where the white
men were, he had said :
“ Yeree seek contry. All dead, all gone! ”
When I with a slight difficulty explained that I wanted
to see one white man, he began to count on his fingers—
“ Mees—dead. Mees—dead! ” until he had counted seven;