For it was not the geographical news he
cared so much about, as the grand fact of Livingstone's being
alive or dead.
In this latter part of December he was writing letters to his
children, to Sir Roderick Murchison, and to Lord Granville.
He had intended to have written to the Earl of Clarendon, but
it was my sad task to inform him of the death of that
distinguished nobleman.
In the meantime I was preparing the Expedition for its return
march to Unyanyembe, apportioning the bales and luggage, the
Doctor's large tin boxes, and my own among my own men; for I
had resolved upon permitting the Doctor's men to march as
passengers, because they had so nobly performed their duty
to their master.
Sayd bin Majid had left, December 12, for Mirambo's country,
to give the black Bonaparte battle for the murder of his son
Soud in the forests of Wilyankuru; and he had taken with him 300
stout fellows, armed with guns, from Ujiji. The stout-hearted
old chief was burning with rage and resentment, and a fine warlike
figure he made with his 7-foot gun. Before we had departed for
the Rusizi, I had wished him bon voyage, and expressed a hope
that he would rid the Central African world of the tyrant Mirambo.
On the 20th of December the rainy season was ushered in with heavy
rain, thunder, lightning, and hail; the thermometer falling to
66 degrees Fahrenheit. The evening of this day I was attacked with
urticaria, or "nettle rash," for the third time since arriving in
Africa, and I suffered a woeful sickness; and it was the forerunner
of an attack of remittent fever, which lasted four days. This is
the malignant type, which has proved fatal to so many African
travellers on the Zambezi, the White Nile, the Congo, and the Niger.
The head throbs, the pulses bound, the heart struggles painfully,
while the sufferer's thoughts are in a strange world, such only as
a sick man's fancy can create. This was the fourth attack of
fever since the day I met Livingstone. The excitement of the
march, and the high hope which my mind constantly nourished,
had kept my body almost invincible against an attack of fever
while advancing towards Ujiji; but two weeks after the great event
had transpired my energies were relaxed, my mind was perfectly
tranquil, and I became a victim.
Christmas came, and the Doctor and I had resolved upon the blessed
and time-honoured day being kept as we keep it in Anglo-Saxon
lands, with a feast such as Ujiji could furnish us. The fever had
quite gone from me the night before, and on Christmas morning,
though exceedingly weak, I was up and dressed, and lecturing
Ferajji, the cook, upon the importance of this day to white men,
and endeavouring to instil into the mind of the sleek and pampered
animal some cunning secrets of the culinary art.
