ALONE ON HIS KNEES: A PRESAGE OF VICTORY
“May heaven's rich blessing come down upon every one—American, English, or Turk—who will help to heal the open sore of the world."—Livingstones words to New York Herald (now inscribed on his tomb in Westminster Abbey).
"19th March, Birthday.—' My Jesus, my king, my life, my all, I again dedicate my whole self to Thee. Accept me, and grant, O gracious Father, that ere this year is gone, I may finish my task. In Jesus' name I ask it. Amen. So let it be.'”
SO wrote the great traveler while waiting at Unyanyembe for the men that Stanley had promised to send up from the coast. It was important that they should arrive quickly before the rainy season commenced; but owing to various hindrances they did not reach Unyanyembe until a month later than they were expected. At last the fifty-seven men and boys sent up by Stanley started from Unyanyembe with Livingstone on 25th August, 1872.
Livingstone's plan was to strike south to go round Tanganyika, cross the Chambezi, and bear away along the western shore of Banguelo. Among the swamps of that lake he died.
Their path lay across flooded rivers; that had to be crossed upon men's shoulders. One night a plague of ants attacked Livingstone. As he went forward the difficulties seemed to increase; all the journey too he was suffering fearful agony from his many disorders.
“I shall not live to finish this journey," he said to Susi. "But if I am able to deal a blow to the slave trade and induce others to attempt the work here, I shall not die in vain. I think I will try and ride for I cannot walk.”
But when they placed him upon the donkey he fell to the ground utterly exhausted and faint.
“Chuma, I have lost so much blood," he said, "that there is no more strength left in my legs. You must carry me.”
They gently helped him upon Chuma's shoulders, and holding his servant's head in order to steady himself the faithful servant carried his master back to the village.
Seeing that his strength was gradually departing, the servants make a kitanda or palanquin of wood. Two side pieces of wood about seven feet long were crossed by rails three feet long and about four inches apart; this was covered with grass, upon which a blanket was laid. Another blanket was hung across the pole—by which two strong men bore their beloved master—to shade him from the sun's rays. Thus through a flooded grass plain they took him to a village, the natives of which fled at their approach.
Through several days they traveled thus. On 27th April this, his last, entry in his diary was made—"Knocked up quite, and remain—recover—sent to buy milch goats. We are on the banks of the Molitamo." He had sent, hoping to get some milk, but in vain. The food prepared for him, of corn pounded with ground nuts, the doctor could not touch.
The next day Livingstone could not walk to the kitanda, and the side of the house had to be broken down to permit the kitanda being brought to his bed side. When the bearers came to a stream they laid the traveler beneath the shade of a tree until all the men had crossed. The canoes were too narrow to permit the kitanda being placed in them, and Livingstone could not bear a hand near his back to lift him into the bottom of the boat. At length he said—
“Chuma, stoop down as low as possible. I will clasp my hands round your head, then do you lift me so as not to touch my back, and lay me in the boat.”
In the same manner they lifted the invalid out of the canoe, and carried him through swamps to Chitambo's village.
“Chuma, put me down," he said every few yards, "I am drowsy."
Once he beckoned one of the men, who, bending over the kitanda, found him unable to speak for faintness.
When he recovered a great thirst oppressed him, and he gasped out—"Water! water!”
They had none but a little distance farther on they met a man bringing some.
When he had taken a drink Livingstone said, "Put me down, and leave me here.”
“But, master, yonder is the village; I can see the huts. Susi will have a grass hut ready for you.”
“I shall soon have a house in the skies. O Mary! Mary! I am weary! weary! weary! Come, Lord Jesus! take me home!”
“Come, master; Chuma speaks to you! It is raining I Bwana, leave us not. Let us carry you to Chitambo's village.”
But he could not then bear to be moved; and when they at length bore him into the little hamlet, they had to shelter him under the eaves of a native hut until his own was prepared.
Raised from the floor by sticks, rough grass formed his dying bed, a box doing duty as a table; a fire burned outside the hut, while his boy slept near him to attend to his master during the night.
“Bwani wants you, Susi," called the boy the next evening. During the day Livingstone had lain silent and apparently unconscious.
“Bring the medicine chest, Susi,'' said Livingstone." Here it is, master.”
“Hold the candle closer.”
“Alas, he cannot see! The night-time of death is upon him," said Susi
“This is it," said Livingstone, selecting the calomel, "it's all right. You can go out now," he added-the last words men heard David Livingstone speak.
It was nearly four o'clock in the morning when the boy called Susi.
“Come, Susi, come to the Bwana! I am afraid; I don't know if he is alive!" Susi and five others followed the boy to the hut.
Dr. Livingstone was not in his bed. He knelt beside it with his arms stretched forth, his face buried in his hands upon the pillow.
“He is praying as he ever does," said Chuma. "Disturb him not.”
“When I lay down he was just as he is now, and when I awoke I found he had not moved. Oh, me! I fear he is dead and will never speak to me again.”
“How long did you sleep," asked Chuma, turning to the boy.
“I know not, but it must have been a long time.”
“It was but just after midnight that I left him," said Susi. "It is now four o'clock. Is it not strange that he has not got into bed?
“Snuff the candle, Susi," said Chuma.
The candle was stuck by its own wax to a box lid; when Susi had snuffed it so as to obtain a clearer light, Chuma said—
“Let us come nearer.”
“Can you hear his breathing," asked Susi.
“No," said Chuma, "but let us feel his cheeks. Oh! they are cold. Alas, alas! he is dead.”
“Lay him upon his bed and cover him carefully," said Susi, "and let us go outside and talk what shall we do.”
So on the 1st of May, 1873, Livingstone passed away upon his knees. Oh, a presage of victory surely was there in such a death! A man of prayer, he won for Africa a free Gospel, as he yielded up his spirit in the attitude of prayer.
“Come all into the teat and look upon him," said Chums to the servants. "Let Jacob Wainwright (one of his Negro followers) write a list of his goods, that nothing may be lost.”
“We will obey Susi and Chuma," said the men. "Give us your orders and we will do your will.”
“Ye know that people here dread the dead. We dread not our master: he would not hurt us living, and will not now he is dead. Let us carry his body to Zanzibar, and let no man tell that he is dead." '
After removing the viscera, that were reverently buried beneath a tree, the body was exposed for fourteen days to the heat of the sun. Being thus dried, it was then swathed in calico and placed in a bark case, and thus carried upon poles toward the coast by six men.
For nine weary months these men traveled, jealously guarding the body and every fragment of personal property belonging to their master. At times the tribes were very hostile; at one place they had even to fight to get past. On another occasion they were compelled to make up the body like a bale of goods, sending off a sham package in another direction. But they never relinquished their purpose.
“Let us not give way," said Chuma. "You know that the doctor never gave up what he once commenced. It is right he should go to his people.”
O Chuma,'' said Susi, "how we do miss him! When he was so ill he still looked round to see about the rivers, trees, and people. I should so like to hear him laugh once more!
“So should I," replied Chuma." Does he laugh where he has gone, think you? I cannot think that he is worse off now than when he was with us.”
“I think he laughs, for when he was not so ill I asked him once about the spirit after death. He told me about Ma Robert, his wife, and how she was now where no sickness or cold could come; and I said O master, are the dead happy?' They who are servants of Jesus are,' said he.”
“Yes; bow fond he was of saying ' Make Jesus your friend," answered Chuma." I shall always think of that —a friend of Jesus! But we've lost a friend.”
“That we have; but, Chuma, let us think upon what he used to say to us when we all sat round the camp fire. How kind he was, and how we all loved to hear his stories! And then he would stop in his talk about his home to tell about Jesus and His love, and read to us out of God's Book. How his lips trembled as he spoke about the Savior dying upon the Cross for us. I wonder what Jesus said to him when he went into heaven.”
“I cannot say; but I should like to go where he has gone, to be with him once more. I think I should know him, and it would be so beautiful to be in heaven with him.”
“I do try," said Susi, "but it is hard sometimes, isn't it though? My mind so soon forgets, and then I get so vexed with myself. When I kneel down, too, to pray I lose my words; what to do I don't knew. I wish he were here to tell us.”
“I asked him once when we were in the swamps how I ought to pray," said Chuma, "and he smiled and said, 'Now, Chuma, suppose you wanted some medicine of me, what would you do?' Why, come to you at once and ask for it,' said I. Of course,' he answered, and you wouldn't think about the way you expressed yourself so much, as about the fact that I loved you and would be sure to help you.' I know that,' I said. Then, go to God in that way. He loves you, and if you tell Him what you want, He will forgive a mistake in asking.' I don't now think about how I am to ask. I fill my mind with the thoughts of Him to whom I am speaking.”
All along the journey the tidings they found had preceded them, and one after another spoke of the good men departed. Men loved him during life; but they showed how much they loved him after he had passed away.
At Unyanyembe they met an expedition going to Livingstone's relief. Lieutenant Cameron, who commanded it, heard the tidings of Livingstone's death with deep emotion. "He was a grand man, and worthy of Scotland," he said. "He ought to be buried among her heather clad hills. But it is impossible. Bury him in Africa.”
“No," said Susi, "we want to take him to Zanzibar." "But his wife is buried in Africa, and he belongs to Africa.”
“We feel we must take him to the coast," persisted the faithful natives, and they did so.
In February, 1874, the men reached the coast with the sacred burden. The remains arrived at Southampton, 15th April, 1874, and were brought to London, being deposited in the rooms of the Geographical Society. That evening they were examined by medical men, to prove the identity of the body. The state of the arm crushed by the lion, long, long before, supplied the evidence that the body was indeed that of "one of the greatest men of the human race-David Livingstone”
On Saturday, 28th April, 1874, the remains brought from the heart of Africa were deposited near the center of the nave in Westminster Abbey.
“He climbed the steep ascent of heaven
Through peril, toil, and pain;
O God! to us may grace be given
To follow in his train.”
Twenty-nine thousand miles Livingstone had traveled through Africa, adding a million square miles of territory to what was known of the earth.
“That kneeling figure, dying alone in the remote African village, stirred men who had formerly slighted his words. Dying in silence at Ilala he accomplished more at his death even than during his life; or rather his death gathered up all the work of the past and gave it new force and power. Though the heart of Livingstone, se faithful, and tender, and true, has finally ceased to beat, his voice rings out loud in the ears of Europe and America. It is heard clearer and louder now than when he lived and toiled, than when he entreated for aid to break the shackles riveted on the black nations of Africa by the accursed traffic in slaves. While he lived he could only say, in his utter loneliness, `May Heaven's rich blessing come down upon every one-American, English, or Turk-who will help to heal the open sore of the world!' But from the depths of that grave where his beloved remains lie, his spirit cries out, 'Arise, Americans, Englishmen, and Turks, and stop the slave trade!
“David Livingstone has bequeathed to us, besides a legacy of respect for his memory, a rich legacy of hate to the evil horror which decimates the continent of Africa. For wherever it travels, it leaves behind it a trail of blood and tears, burning villages, scorched fields, and depopulated countries! It is preceded by fear, and sorrow, and suffering! It is begirt all around by blackest desolation! The evil influences of it are as enduring as death! Over the once cultivated acreage and happy simplicity and contentment of the palm or plantain embowered villages the forest grows; and the place over which little children gleefully romped, and the women loved and joyed with their progeny, is known no more! The slave trade is a sin of the deepest, darkest, deadliest kind, and the civilized nations of Europe and America, who are, under God, the shepherds of the world, should extend their care and protection over the feeble and oppressed races of Africa, as much as over those of any other part or parcel of earth. Then, and not till then, will the prophetic words of Livingstone come to pass, ' It will all come right at last.'”
Sleep, then, O Livingstone, in thy dreamless bed until that bright and happy time comes! Sleep on, sleek ever, at peace from thy toil! Love and friendship will cast their garlands over thy memory to keep it green, and hearts of good men and women will bless thee for the glorious work thou hast so well done!
The recent wonderful expansion of missionary and commercial enterprise in Africa can all be traced to the self-denying, patient hero who toiled on until he died at his post. "The spirit of missions is the spirit of our Master, the very genius of His religion.”
May every reader of this narrative be as resolute, simple, patient, and God honored, as THE FACTORY BOY WHO BECAME A MISSIONARY.