BAOBAB TREE.
In two marches Worumbang, the western frontier village of Manding, was reached without mishap. The party was now on the verge of the dreaded Jallonka Wilderness. Provisions had to be gathered for the passage of this trying region, and every one rested to prepare for the forced marches and hardships ahead.
On the morning of the 21st the outskirts of the wilderness were entered. On reaching the woods a halt was called, and a prayer offered up that Allah and his prophet might preserve them from robbers, keep them from hunger, and sustain them under fatigue. This ceremony over, it behoved every man to push forward with all his strength and will if Kinytakuro, the proposed destination of that day’s march, was to be reached before dark. Every one, bond and free alike, knew the dangers before him, and ran rather than walked.
Soon the Niger basin was left, and the Kokoro, a tributary of the Senegal, was reached. At this time it was a mere rivulet, but there was ample evidence to show that during the rainy season it had risen twenty feet.
No halt was made throughout the day—nothing was heard but the order to push on. Well indeed was it for those who had the strength to do so. Some there were who could not. A woman and a girl began to lag behind. Threats and curses from time to time incited them to spasmodic efforts at exertion, but soon these failed in their effect, and fell on unheeding ears. The lash was next brought into play, and for a time gave the needed stimulus. Then it too failed. Savage hands grasped the unhappy victims of European commerce and dragged them forward, while others behind plied the whip with unabating ferocity. The limits of nature were reached at last, and both sank to the ground, not to be moved by any form of fiendish cruelty. Furious and disappointed, their master had at length to give in, and make up his mind to return home for the time being.
About sunset the town of Kinytakuro was reached, and the anxieties of the first day’s march were over. The entry to the town was made with much ceremony and circumstance. The musicians led the way singing the praises of the villagers, their hospitality, and their friendship to the Mandingoes. After them followed some of the free men; then came the slaves, fastened in fours by a rope round the neck, with an armed man between each set. Behind the raw slaves came the domestic slaves, while the rear was brought up by the free women, the wives of the slatees, the scholars, &c. In this way the caravan marched to the palaver house, where the people gathered round to hear their story; after which lodgings and food were provided for the entire party.
At daybreak on the 23rd, the wilderness proper was entered. At ten o’clock the river Wonda, flowing to the Senegal, was crossed, and then strict commands were given that close order should be maintained, and every man travel in his proper station.
The guides and the young men led the way, the women and slaves occupied the centre, while the free men brought up the rear. The country through which they passed unmolested, though with hurried footsteps, was charming in the extreme, with its variety of hill and dale, of glade and wood, and meandering streams, to which partridges, guinea fowl, and deer gave an air of animation. On this day Park got his arms and neck painfully blistered by the burning sun, from which his scanty dress afforded him no protection.
At sunset a romantic stream called Comcissang was reached, and here the party halted for the night, thoroughly fatigued with their day’s exertions, though no one was heard to complain. Large fires were kindled for cooking purposes, as well as to light up the camp and drive away wild beasts. Supper over, the slaves were put in irons to prevent their escaping, and then all disposed themselves to sleep; but between ants within the camp and wild beasts howling without the night’s rest was sadly broken.
At daybreak morning prayers were said, after which a little gruel was drunk by the free men, the irons being thereafter once more taken off the slaves, and the march resumed.
The route now led over a wild and rocky country, where Park, with nothing better than sandals to protect his feet, got sadly bruised and cut. Fears began to oppress him that he would not be able to keep up with the caravan, and that he would be left behind to perish. The sight of others more exhausted than himself was, however, in some sort a relief from his apprehension. Neali, one of Karfa’s female slaves, especially showed signs of giving in. She began to lag behind, complaining of pains in her legs, and her load had to be taken from her and given to another. About midday, while halting at a rivulet, an enormous swarm of bees, which had been disturbed by one of the men, set upon the caravan, and sent it flying in all directions. When the panic had subsided, it was discovered that Neali had been left behind. Before going back in search of her it was necessary to set fire to the grass to the east of the hive in order to clear away the bees with the smoke. The plan was effectual, and on returning to the rivulet, Neali was found half dead in the water, whither she had crept in the hope of escaping the onslaught of the bees. The stratagem had been of no avail, however, and the poor creature was almost stung to death.
It was the last drop in her cup of misery. Nothing else could touch her. Entreaties and threats were alike useless. Further forward she doggedly refused to go. Once more the efficacy of the whip was tried. Down came the brutal lash. The girl writhed in every muscle, but she neither screamed nor attempted to rise. Again the lash swung round her shrinking body, but with no more effect. Not until it had descended a third and a fourth time did her resolution give way. Then stung to superhuman effort by the fearful torture, she started up and staggered forward for some hours, till wild with agony she made a mad attempt to run away, but fell fainting among the grass. Her master’s only remedy was the lash, and that he applied with renewed savagery. In vain—Neali was beyond its cruel compulsion. As a last resource the donkey which carried the dry provisions was brought, and the half dead slave placed on his back. But the girl’s only wish was to die, nay, even now she seemed as one already dead.
Unable even if she had been willing to retain her seat, and the donkey at the same time emphatically objecting to his new load, that means of carriage had to be given up. The day’s journey, however, was nearly over, and Neali being a valuable slave, the slatees could not bring themselves to abandon her. Accordingly, they made a rude litter of bamboo canes, on which she was carried until the camping ground for the night was reached.
It now became evident that Neali was not the only slave for whom the journey was proving too much. The hard march with heavy loads under a broiling sun, without food, and with no better stimulant than blows and curses—with nothing to look forward to at night but additional chains, and in the future a horrible fate at the hands of white men across the seas—all this was beginning to have its natural effect. Sullen despair was in every feature—every gesture. Death, suicide, seemed preferable to such a chain of horrors.
The slatees were not slow to mark these ominous signs. At once fetters were applied—the more desperate of the slaves having even their hands chained; and thus bound they were left to rest as best they might.
Throughout the night Neali lay torpid and almost motionless, and morning found her with limbs so stiff and swollen that she could not stand, much less walk. The donkey was again brought into requisition, and to keep her on his back the girl’s hands were tied round his neck, and her feet under his belly. Spite of these precautions, however, before long the donkey threw her, and bound as she was, she was nearly trampled to death before she could be released.
Meanwhile precious time was being wasted in a wilderness where every minute was of the utmost importance. To carry the girl in the fashion of the previous evening was out of the question, and the patience of every one was exhausted. “Cut her throat! cut her throat!” was the cry now raised by the slave dealers. Strange to say, Park did not seem to have anything to urge against this brutal suggestion—for Neali indeed the most merciful ending of her troubles—though being unwilling to see it put in force, he walked on ahead. A few minutes later one of Karfa’s men came up to him carrying Neali’s scanty cotton garment, which to Park was eloquent of the poor girl’s fate. He could not bring himself to make inquiries then, but later on he learned that Neali had not had the good fortune to have her tortures ended at once by the knife. She was deserted, and a day of exposure, naked to the remorseless sun, without food or drink, had to drag slowly on before darkness drew a veil over the last horrible scene, in which she met death under the fangs of the wild beasts of the Jallonka Wilderness.
The fate of the slave girl had a wonderfully stimulating effect on the rest of the caravan; but the schoolmaster, in doubts as to how Allah would regard the incident, fasted the whole day. In deep silence the slaves travelled onward at a steady pace, each apprehensive that his too might be the fate of Neali. No one was more apprehensive than Park himself. Only by the most determined effort of will did he keep himself from succumbing on the march. Everything that could obstruct him in the least—even his spear—was thrown away, but still he could just barely struggle on. “The poor slaves, amidst their own infinitely greater sufferings, would commiserate mine, and frequently of their own accord bring water to quench my thirst, and at night collect branches and leaves to prepare me a bed in the wilderness.”
On the morning of the 26th, two of the schoolmaster’s pupils complained of pains in their legs, and one of the slaves walked lame, the soles of his feet being much blistered and inflamed. But there could be no halting for such trivial causes, and the caravan pushed onward with hot haste, eager to escape as soon as possible the hardships and dangers of the desert. In the middle of the day a rocky hill was reached, the crossing of which greatly aggravated the sores on the travellers’ feet. In the afternoon evidences of a raiding party of horsemen were seen, and to hide their track the caravan had to disperse and travel wide apart for some distance.
Another day of toil ended the desert march. On the 27th, the village of Susita, in the district of Kullo, was entered. The rest of the road was comparatively safe. Next day the Bafing or Black River, the principal branch of the Senegal, was crossed by a bamboo bridge of singular construction. Trees tied end to end were made to support a roadway of bamboos—the centre of the bridge floating on the water, the ends resting on the banks. On the rising of the water during the rains this primitive bridge is carried away each year.
Though the caravan had now got into a well-populated district, their troubles were hardly over. They were refused admittance at village after village, and to complete their discomfiture, news came that two hundred Jallonkas had gathered to plunder them. This necessitated an alteration in their route, and a forced night march. After midnight a town was reached, but as a free man and three slaves were found to be missing, a halt was called, and while the caravan remained concealed in a cotton field, a search party returned to look for the runaways. In the morning the town was entered, and the day was passed in resting from their fatigues. Here, to the joy of all, the absentees turned up safely. One of the slaves had hurt his foot, and they had thus lagged behind and lost the caravan. The free man, foreseeing the danger of an outbreak, insisted on putting the slaves in irons. This they were inclined to resist, but a threat to stab them all had its due effect.
On the 3rd of May the caravan reached the schoolmaster’s native village, Malacotta, where in consequence a hearty welcome awaited them. Three days were spent here recruiting the party. During that time Park learned the particulars of a remarkable story of Moslem zeal and Pagan chivalry and generosity, well worthy of being retold.
“The King of Futa Torra, inflamed with a zeal for propagating his religion, had sent an embassy to Damel, King of the Jaloffs.
“The ambassador was accompanied by two of the principal Mohammedans of the country, who each carried a knife fixed on the top of a long pole. ‘With this knife,’ said the ambassador, ‘Abdul Kader will condescend to shave the head of Damel, if Damel will embrace the Mohammedan religion; and with this other knife Abdul Kader will cut the throat of Damel if Damel refuse to embrace it. Take your choice.’
“Damel replied that he had no choice to make. He neither chose to have his head shaved nor his throat cut; and with this answer the ambassador was civilly dismissed. War was accordingly declared, and the country of Damel invaded. The fortune of war, however, went against the earthly instrument of Allah, and his army was not only dispersed with great loss, but he himself taken prisoner. In this humiliating position Abdul Kader was brought in irons and thrown on the ground before Damel. Instead of setting his foot on the neck of his royal prisoner and stabbing him with his spear, as is the custom in such cases, Damel addressed him as follows—‘Abdul Kader, answer me this question. If the chance of war had placed me in your situation, and you in mine, how would you have treated me?’
“‘I would have thrust my spear into your heart,’ answered the brave though fanatical prince; ‘and I know that a similar fate awaits me.’
“‘Not so,’ said Damel. ‘My spear is indeed red with the blood of your subjects killed in battle, and I could now give it a deeper stain by dipping it in your own; but this would not build up my towns, nor bring to life the thousands who fell in the woods. I will not therefore kill you in cold blood, but I will retain you as my slave until I perceive that your presence in your own kingdom will be no longer dangerous to your neighbours, and then I will consider of the proper way of disposing of you.’ A decision which has been made the subject of the songs of the musicians, and a matter of applausive comment by all the tribes.
“Abdul Kader was accordingly retained, and worked as a slave for three months; at the end of which period Damel listened to the solicitations of the inhabitants of Futa Torra, and restored to them their king.”
Of the truth of this story there seems to be no doubt.
At Malacotta, Park could look forward with a considerable degree of confidence to his safe return to the coast. He was once more within the sphere of influence of coast trade, where the European was better known, and the hostile agency of the Moor was of small account. There were no more jungles to cross, and he was unaware of obstructing wars on the route. Through good and evil report Karfa had remained his staunch friend, and it was certain that now that his promised reward was coming nearer and nearer attainment, he would not alter in his honourable fidelity to his engagements. It was now only a question of so many more days’ journey till the Gambia would be reached, and all Park’s cares and troubles be at an end.
On the 7th of May the slave caravan left Malacotta, and resumed its journey to the coast. The Bali, a branch of the Senegal, was crossed, and Bintingala entered in the evening.
In the afternoon of the 12th the Falemé River was forded about 100 miles south of Park’s fording point on his inland journey. At this place and time of year the river was only two feet deep, flowing over a bed of sand and gravel.
On the same day the caravan halted at the residence of a Mandingo merchant, who had his food served up in pewter dishes in the European fashion. Next morning they were joined by a Serawuli slave caravan. These traders had the reputation of being infinitely more cruel in their treatment of slaves than the Mandingoes. Park was soon to see a sample of their ways. The caravan was travelling with great speed through the dense woods, when one of the slaves began to show signs of exhaustion, and let his load fall from his head. A smart flogging proved a temporary stimulant to the unhappy victim, but hardly a mile was passed before nature once more asserted itself, and again the load fell. A double dose of the lash proved a second time effectual, and once more the slave struggled painfully forward. At last the limits of his powers were reached, and it became clear that flog as they might he would remain immovable.
The caravan could not wait till he recovered, and accordingly one of the Serawulis undertook to wait and bring him to camp in the cool of the evening. When the slave dealer did arrive in camp he came alone. No questions were asked, but every one knew that either the unfortunate man had been killed, or was left to be devoured by wild beasts.
Other examples of the slave dealers’ methods were almost daily exhibited before Park’s eyes. At one place a Mandingo, having a slave torn from a neighbouring district, agreed with Karfa to exchange him for another from a more distant country, to which he could not run away. The slave to be taken by Karfa was called on a trivial pretext to come into the house. The moment he entered the gate was shut, and he was told to sit down. At once he saw the danger of his situation—not only the more horrible fate of transportation across the seas, but the loss of all chance of escape to his native country. He would at least make one effort for liberty. With the wild leap of a hunted deer he cleared the fence of the court and bolted for the woods. But it was useless. His enemies were too many. A few minutes of wild flight, spurred on by wolfish cries, and then he was hunted down and brought back in irons to be handed over to Karfa.
At another place one of the male slaves in the caravan was found to be too exhausted to proceed further in spite of the usual physical stimulants. A townsman was found willing to exchange him for a young girl. No hint was given her of her approaching doom till the last moment. Along with her companions she had come to see the caravan depart, when all at once her master seized her by the hand and delivered her to the slave dealer. “Never was a face of serenity more suddenly changed into one of the deepest distress. The terror she manifested on having the load put upon her head and the rope round her neck, and the sorrow with which she bade adieu to her companions, were truly affecting.”
Incidents like these were what chiefly characterised Park’s journey to the Gambia. At times the curious as well as the horrible side of African life peeped out to entertain him, as, for instance, when one of the slatees, on returning for the first time to his native place after an absence of three years, was met at the threshold of his door by his bride-elect, who presented him with a calabash of water in which to wash his hands. This done, “the girl, with a tear of joy sparkling in her eye, drank the water,” in token of her fidelity and attachment.
Another of the slatees turned out to be an African Enoch Arden. For eight long years he had stayed away from his wife, during which time she heard nothing from him. Concluding after three years that he was either dead or not likely to return, she seemingly without reluctance gave her heart and hand to another, by whom she had two children. The first husband now claimed her as his. The other objected on the ground that a three years’ absence annulled a marriage. For four days a public palaver was held to settle this knotty point, ending in the decision that the husbands had equal rights, and that the wife had best settle the matter by making her own choice. The lady asked time to consider, but Park could perceive that not love but wealth would gain the day.
On the 20th of May the caravan entered the Tenda Wilderness, where for two days they traversed dense woods. With what pleasure must Park have noticed that the country shelved towards the south-west—that in fact he had entered the basin of the Gambia. At sunset of the first day a pool was reached after a very hot and trying march. To avoid the burning heats of the day a night march was determined on. At eleven o’clock the slaves were released from their irons and driven forward in close order, as much to prevent them escaping as to save them from wild beasts. In this fashion they travelled till daybreak, after a rest continuing the march to Tambakunda, the place almost reached by Jobson nearly 170 years before, and which he believed to be Timbuktu itself.
From Tambakunda the road led over a wild and rocky country, everywhere rising into hills, and abounding with monkeys and wild beasts. During the next two marches the reception everywhere met with by the caravan was far from being hospitable, and they were even in some danger of being plundered.
On the 30th of May the Nerico, a branch of the Gambia, was reached. As soon as it was crossed the singing men began to chant a song expressive of their delight at having got safe into the “land of the setting sun.” Next day, to his infinite joy, Park found himself on the banks of the Gambia, at a point where it was navigable, though lower down there were shallows.
Three days later, Medina, the capital of Wulli, was reached, where Park had been so hospitably received seventeen months before. The caravan did not halt here; but Park, mindful of the old king’s prayer on his behalf, sent word to him that his prayers had not been unavailing.
Next day Jindeh was reached, where the parting with Dr. Laidley had taken place. Here Karfa left his slaves till a better opportunity of selling them had arrived; but determined not to leave his white friend till the last, he accompanied him on his way to Pisania.
Park at this point remarks: “Although I was now approaching the end of my tedious and toilsome journey, and expected in another day to meet with countrymen and friends, I could not part for the last time with my unfortunate fellow-travellers, doomed as I knew most of them to be to a life of captivity and slavery in a foreign land, without great emotion.... We parted with reciprocal expressions of regret and benediction. My good wishes and prayers were all that I could bestow upon them, and it afforded me some consolation to be told that they were sensible I had no more to give.”
On the 10th, Park once more shook hands with one of his countrymen. He found that it was universally believed that he had met the same fate as Major Houghton in Ludamar. He also learned with sincere sorrow that neither Johnson, who had deserted him, nor Demba, who had been enslaved by the Moors, had returned.
On the 12th, Dr. Laidley joined the long-lost traveller, and greeted him as one risen from the dead. Park was soon, under his hospitable hands, divested of his ragged Moorish garments. With them went the luxuriant beard which had been the delight and admiration of natives and Moors alike, among whom nothing is more envied, and he stood forth once more the handsome young Scotchman his portrait shows him to be.
Karfa was now paid off, the stipulated reward being doubled, and Dr. Laidley’s interest also promised in getting his slaves disposed of to advantage.
Karfa was never tired expressing his wonderment at all he saw, though nothing surprised him more than the incomprehensible madness of a person in Park’s condition in life leaving all and suffering so many hardships and dangers merely to see the river Niger. “I have preserved,” says Park, “these little traits of character in this worthy negro, not only from regard to the man, but also because they appear to me to demonstrate that he possessed a mind above his condition, and to such of my readers as love to contemplate human nature in all its varieties, and to trace its progress from rudeness to refinement, I hope the account I have given of this poor African will not be unacceptable.”
Looking back on his long and terrible journey, Park could afford to take a lenient view of all the people who had plundered, ill-used, or inhospitably treated him, except the Moors, of whom he carried a deep-rooted horror and hatred to his dying day. For the Mandingoes and kindred tribes he could ever find an excuse for all he suffered at their hands, and as a people he found them gentle, cheerful in their dispositions, kind-hearted, and simple, with a natural sense of justice which only very great temptation could overcome. He could not find words strong enough to describe the disinterested charity and tender solicitude shown by many of them, especially the women, whom he found to be universally kind and compassionate, sympathising with his sufferings, relieving his distresses, and contributing to his safety.
Reviewing what he had seen commercially, he found that slaves, gold, and ivory, beeswax and honey, hides, gums, and dye woods, constituted the whole catalogue of exportable commodities. Of other products, such as tobacco, indigo, and cotton, sufficient only was raised for native consumption. He concluded, nevertheless, that “it cannot, however, admit of a doubt that all the rich and valuable productions both of the East and West Indies might easily be naturalised and brought to the utmost perfection in the tropical parts of this immense continent. Nothing is wanting to this end but example to enlighten the minds of the natives, and instruction to enable them to direct their industry to proper objects. It was not possible for me to behold the wonderful fertility of the soil, the vast herds of cattle, proper both for food and labour, and a variety of other circumstances favourable to colonisation and agriculture, and reflect withal on the means which presented themselves of a vast inland navigation, without lamenting that a country so abundantly gifted and favoured by nature should remain in its present savage and neglected state. Much more did I lament that a people of manners and dispositions so gentle and benevolent should either be left as they now are, immersed in the gross and uncomfortable blindness of Pagan superstition, or permitted to become converts to a system of bigotry and fanaticism which, without enlightening the mind, often debases the heart.” And yet which of the representatives of the two religions, Islam and Christianity, were doing the most good among the heathen according to Park’s own showing—the Mohammedans, battling against the inrushing tide of rum and gin, encouraging education, and spreading a knowledge of Allah the One God; or the Christian merchants, fomenting and deepening all the horrors of native barbarism that their trade in slaves might be kept up, and adding to the degradation of the land by the drink and firearms they gave in exchange for its people?
As there was no ship in the river when Park arrived, he expected to have to wait for some months. In this, however, he was happily disappointed, for an American slave ship, the Charlestown, arrived on the 15th. Slaves were plentiful, and in a couple of days the cargo of human flesh and blood for the plantations of South Carolina was made up in exchange for rum and tobacco.
Though the route by America was excessively circuitous, it was such a chance as Park could not afford to neglect. Accordingly, on the 17th of June he bade farewell to all his English friends, and took passage in the American vessel.
He had now reason to suppose that all his cares, anxieties, and dangers were over, and nothing but rest and good treatment before him. Once more, however, he was dogged by his usual ill-luck. The passage down the river was tedious and fatiguing, the weather being exceedingly hot, moist, and unhealthy. The result was that before Goree was reached, four of the seamen, the surgeon, and three of the slaves had died of fever. At Goree, owing to the difficulty of obtaining provisions, the vessel was detained four weary months, so that it was the end of October before she eventually set sail for America.
The Charlestown’s cargo consisted of 130 slaves, of whom twenty-five had been free Mohammedans, able to read and write a little Arabic. Some of the others had seen Park en route, and many had heard of him in their distant villages. But though he had not a word to say against the slave trade, Park had a feeling heart for the miseries of those whom, with his Calvinistic ideas, he believed predestined to a life of shame and suffering. Being able to speak to them in their native language, he did his best as a man and a doctor to comfort them. And in truth they had need of all the consolation he could bestow. The manner in which they were crowded, confined, and chained in the hold of the ship produced terrible sufferings, while the foul air, the wretched sanitary conditions, and the want of exercise brought on general sickness. “Besides the three who died on the Gambia, and six or eight at Goree, eleven perished at sea, and many of the survivors were reduced to a very weak and emaciated condition.”
To make matters worse for all concerned, the Charlestown sprang a leak three weeks from Goree, and threatened to founder in mid-ocean. To avoid this, the ablest of the negroes were taken from their chains and kept at the pumps till they could be hounded on no longer, and sank down exhausted and half dead. In spite of everything, however, the leak continued to gain, and the misery of all on board was indescribable. As affording the only chance of safety, the Charlestown was turned from its course and steered for Antigua, which was reached thirty-five days out from Goree. But even in sight of harbour the ship narrowly escaped destruction by striking on a sunken rock.
Park remained at Antigua for two days, when on the 24th November he was taken up by a passing mail ship. After a short but tempestuous voyage he arrived at Falmouth on the 22nd December, having been absent from England two years and nine months.
Once landed at Falmouth, Park lost no time in proceeding to London. In those days there was no telegraph to apprise the world of his arrival, nor newspaper reporters to interview him, and give their readers a description of his appearance and a foretaste of his adventures.
He reached London before daybreak on the 25th December, and directed his steps to the house of his brother-in-law, Mr. Dickson. Not caring to disturb his relative at that early hour, he wandered about the streets for some time, till finding one of the gates to the British Museum Gardens open, he entered.
As it happened, Dickson had charge of these gardens, and on this particular morning had business which took him there unusually early. Conceive his amazement on coming face to face with what for a moment he almost took to be a vision or ghost of his young relative, long since believed to be dead. It did not take long to convince him, however, that here was no ghost, but the actual traveller himself, safe and well, his great mission carried through to a successful conclusion.
The interest, delight, and surprise of the Association, as well as of the public generally, were no less keen. For some time it had been looked on as a certainty that he had been murdered, and now the utmost curiosity prevailed to hear his adventures, and at last learn something authentic about the mysterious river of the negroes.
It looked indeed as if Park’s own prediction to his brother before leaving for Africa, that he would “acquire a greater name than any ever did,” was to be verified. In the absence of more definite news, the hand to hand reports which circulated only tended to exaggerate his feats and discoveries.
So eager became the demand for information that it was determined to issue a preliminary report of the principal geographical results of the expedition. This was written by Bryan Edwards, the Secretary of the Association, a gentleman of no inconsiderable literary attainments, and author of a “History of the British Colonies in the West Indies.”
To the collaboration of Edwards was added that of Major Rennell, who worked out with very great care the traveller’s routes, and the geography of the region generally. In addition, Rennell added a memoir on the upper course of the Niger beyond Park’s furthest point, collating with his information that of the Arabian geographers.
But the public demanded something more than the dry bones of geography to satisfy their hungry appetite. They wanted also the flesh and blood of his narrative—how he lived and moved, what he felt and suffered, what dangers he faced, what hardships endured, the wonders he saw. Books of travel had not then deluged the market and saturated men’s minds with details about the remotest corners of Inner Africa. It was practically virgin soil to the reader, who could in nowise guess beforehand what startling revelations were in store for him. Compared with the modern devourer of books of travel, his sensations would be as those of the first explorer of the Gambia to the subdued expectancy of our latest traveller.
To gratify this very natural curiosity Park now devoted himself. His materials, apart from his memory, were but scanty. They consisted, in fact, of short notes or memoranda, written on odds and ends of paper, which must often have been far from legible, considering how they were carried for months in the crown of a battered hat, exposed to damp and all manner of accidents.
In the task of authorship Park was no doubt materially aided by Mr. Edwards, with whom he lived on terms of great friendship. In one or two places the pen of Edwards is clearly traceable, but these are few and far between. Where he lent the most valuable assistance was in the pruning, rearrangement, and revision which the work of a novice in composition would almost necessarily require. In this respect, however, Park is not alone among travellers. Few indeed among them have had such a complete mastery of the pen and of the English language as to trust absolutely in their own literary powers and judgment, although, as in Park’s case, the assistance required has seldom gone beyond guidance and revision.
Apart from his literary influence, it can hardly be doubted that Edwards very materially moulded Park’s views on at least one important subject—the slave trade. At that time the question of abolition had become a burning one in the country, and Edwards was one of the warmest advocates of the old order of things. He would give Africa Light, but no Liberty. While actively employed in trying to open up the Dark Continent to European influence, he strenuously strove to ensure that that influence should remain of the most criminal and degrading nature.
Let the reader imagine what would have been the consequence to Africa if the advocates of slavery had had their way, and the exploration of the Continent had only been the forerunner of more widespread ramifications of the slave trade. However incredible it may appear, such might easily have been the case. People once accustomed to an evil soon forget that it is such, and begin to look upon it as one of the necessary and unavoidable ills of life. Take, for example, the survival of the African gin trade to this very day, increasing and flourishing long after its dissociation from its well-matched sister traffic in slaves, and everywhere dogging the explorer’s footsteps. It is doubtful if even the slave trade has done more to brutalise and degrade the negro; and yet even in our time there is only a partial awakening to the frightful evils of the iniquitous traffic.
This culpable blindness or carelessness on our part is doubtless largely fostered by the comforting and comfortable belief that our missionaries are doing a great and noble work in Africa, and that mere contact with the European and European commerce must of necessity have an elevating effect upon the lower races. The truth is that for every negro nominally or genuinely brought under the influence of Christianity, ten thousand have been driven by drink to depths of moral and physical depravity unheard of among uncontaminated native tribes, and that so far contact with the European and his commerce has resulted not in elevation to the African, but in degradation of the most loathsome kind.
To what extent Park was really influenced in his opinions on the slave question by Edwards it would be difficult to say. It matters little, however, for whether he really believed in the righteousness of slavery or was merely reasoned into neutrality, his position was equally indefensible. Nay, more, if, as his friends say, he really believed that the trade was an unjust one, the position he assumed was nothing more nor less than criminal. These urge, as if it were an extenuating circumstance, that in private conversation he even expressed the greatest abhorrence of the traffic. This, it must be confessed, seems improbable. Such an attitude is utterly unlike what we should expect from a man of Park’s marked individuality and strong earnest truthfulness. Moreover, it seems sufficiently clear that the public opinion of his day ascribed to him a belief in the righteousness of the principle of slavery, and if it was wrong, it seems strange that he took no means to correct it. But that it was not wrong seems evident from a speech delivered on the Abolition of the Slave Trade by George Hibbert in Parliament in 1803.
The following is an extract—valuable, too, as throwing light upon the share of Edwards in the writing of Park’s book:—
“I have read and heard that we are to look to Park’s facts and not to his opinions; and it has been insinuated that his editor, Mr. Edwards, had foisted those opinions (relating to the slave trade) into his book. It happened to me once to converse with Mr. Park at a meeting of the Linnean Society, when this very topic was started, and he assured me that, not being in the habit of literary composition, he was obliged to employ some one to put his manuscript into a form fit for the public eye, but that every sheet of the publication had undergone his strict revision, and that not only every fact but every sentiment was his own.”
We must, therefore, till more convincing proof than hearsay evidence is forthcoming, believe that Mungo Park was a believer in the slave trade. Such a position we can understand and make all due allowance for as the result of the ideas of the time, and of those by whom he was immediately surrounded—to believe else were to place Park on a distinctly lower pedestal than that to which he is entitled by his many meritorious characteristics.
Shortly after the publication of the abstract of Park’s narrative, he left London on a visit to his family at Foulshiels, where his mother still lived, though his father had been dead for some years. Here he remained the whole of the summer and autumn of 1798, working assiduously at the narrative of his travels. This was probably anything but an agreeable task to him after the eventful life he had led for three years, and unaccustomed as he was to literary work. But Park was not the man to shirk any work, however irksome, if it in any way appeared to him in the light of a duty. His mornings he devoted to writing, his evenings to strolls along the bank of his much-loved Yarrow, where, rarely troubled by native or by passing stranger, he could undisturbed recall the various events which marked his African wanderings, and on the dreamy rush of the mountain stream let his thoughts glide back to the majestic sweep of the Joliba moving eastward towards its unknown bourne. What hours he must have spent thus, seeking in his mind’s eye to pierce the dark veil which so mysteriously shrouded the great African river beyond Timbuktu, and follow it to its union with the ocean, or its gradual disappearance in the Central Deserts.
At times restlessness and a feeling of revolt took possession of him, and then the only charm that could exorcise the demon of unrest within him or soothe his wild vague longings, was a long swift walk among the wild romantic scenery around. Up Yarrow’s winding dale, on the bold front of Newark Hill, or the heathery summit of the Broomy Law, his was the keen pleasure of a soul that knows “a rapture on the lonely shore.” The distant bleat of sheep, the plaintive call of the curlew, and the whirr of grouse, harmonised well with the mood possessing him, and touched his heart with the wild pathos of Nature. Happiest when alone, he found companions in all the sounds around him. The breeze, the rushing stream, the wild calls of bird and beast, all alike spoke to him, and adapted themselves to his every mood.
All this may be vaguely discerned by virtue of the gleams of light which have momentarily shot across the darkness of the past, and preserved a blurred though speaking print of the great traveller at home among his native hills.
But although thus isolated from the world at large, Park was not entirely cut off from communication with his fellow-men. His chief resort when in a mood for society was the house of his friend and master in medicine, Dr. Anderson, who still practised in Selkirk, within easy reach of Foulshiels. As one result of these frequent visits, the friendship of former days for Miss Anderson speedily developed into a warmer feeling, and summer saw them engaged.
Towards the latter part of 1798, Park returned to London to make the final arrangements for the publication of his narrative. Even then, however, much had to be done with the assistance of Edwards before the manuscript was finally ready for the press, and spring had come before the book saw the light.
It would be difficult to overestimate the enthusiasm with which it was received, or the interest in Park and Africa which it aroused. Two editions were sold off in rapid succession, and were followed by several others in the course of the following ten years.
Apart from its being almost the first of African books of travel, and from the absolute novelty of all it contained, the narrative was told with a charm and naïveté in themselves sufficient to captivate the most fastidious reader. Modesty and truthfulness peeped from every sentence. Its author claimed no praise, no admiration, beyond that due to him for having done his duty. He took to himself no credit for all the virtues he had shown. So afraid was he indeed that he might be charged with being the author of what are called “travellers’ tales,” that he deliberately suppressed several remarkable adventures. On this point he said to Sir Walter Scott, “that in all cases where he had information to communicate which he thought of importance to the public, he had stated the facts boldly, leaving it to his readers to give such credit to his statements as they might appear justly to deserve, but that he would not shock their credulity or render his travels more marvellous by introducing circumstances which, however true, were of little or no moment.”
Happily his narrative required no aid from such suppressed adventures, however strange they might be, or however much we should have liked to know them. He had incident enough to make half-a-dozen of the spun out books of modern travel. Neither then nor since has any African explorer had such a romantic tale to tell, nor has any out of all the long list of adventurers who have followed told his tale so well. Some there have been who have flourished more theatrically across the African stage, and by virtue of striking dramatic effects, and a certain spice of bloodshed, have struck the imagination of those who are content with the superficial show of things, and are not too critical as to their significance. But for actual hardships undergone, for dangers faced, and difficulties overcome, together with an exhibition of the virtues which make a man great in the rude battle of life, Mungo Park stands without a rival. In one respect only—that of motive—does another surpass him. Here Livingstone stands head and shoulders above his predecessor, whose aspirations after personal name and fame, and apathetic attitude towards the anti-slavery movement, will ill bear comparison with the noble longings which inspired the great missionary to travel, that the negro heathen might be brought within the pale of Christian brotherhood, and stirred him to the consecration of his life in healing “the great open sore of the Universe.”
Not that Park was altogether awanting in all that tends towards the spirit of self-sacrifice. On the contrary, throughout his whole narrative we fail to find the faintest trace of vulgar ambition or ignoble self-seeking. He deliberately suppressed incidents which would have added greatly to his fame, especially among those whose imagination is only appealed to by the marvellous. His whole nature shrank from notoriety. He was retired and reserved in manner, and instead of seeking to play the rôle of the “lion” in society, we find that he always looked forward to a time when, his labours ended, he should be able to seek the seclusion and retirement of the country—scarcely the goal this of a merely selfish ambition.
As little was he actuated by the desire of gain, as Ruskin would have us believe. Except perhaps in one conspicuous instance, African travel has never been known to lead to the attainment of riches, and certainly to Park money was never held out as an inducement. The spark that quickened his manhood to heroism, and fired him “to scorn delights and live laborious days,” was the worthy ambition of a noble mind to work for the good of his country and the advancement of knowledge, rewarded solely by the approbation of his own conscience and the esteem of good men.
It is to be remembered that a hundred years ago Christian philanthropy had not become so cosmopolitan—so world-embracing—as to take within its sphere all who bear the name of man, without respect of race, religion, or degree of civilisation. From what we know of his intense religious convictions and kindly nature, Park, had he lived at the present day, would probably have been a missionary aflame for the cause of Christ and ready to lay down his life for it, or a traveller preaching a crusade, not only against the slave trade, which is so often ignorantly ascribed to the influence of Islam, but against the gin trade likewise, which with quite as much plausibility might be associated with Christianity.
At the period of the publication of Park’s narrative the question of Abolition was in every man’s mind. The horrors of the middle passage—the iniquities perpetrated in the plantations by men calling themselves Englishmen—were being painted in colours by no means too dark. Park’s book came opportunely to add to the literature of the subject, and undoubtedly, in spite of the anti-abolition opinions he was believed to hold, the facts he disclosed regarding the horrors of the slave route added materially to the arguments of the Abolitionists. Coming, indeed, as was believed, from one of the opposite party, they were of all the more value, the natural assumption being that the worst aspects had been softened down and as good a case made out for slavery as was possible without direct violation of the truth. It was abundantly clear to all unprejudiced minds that the conditions under which the trade was carried on, and the evil results flowing from it as described by Park, were iniquitous and shameful in the extreme. To such Park’s opinions were of small account compared with his facts, and we may safely conclude that these latter very materially contributed to the sweeping away of the vile traffic.
After the publication of his narrative there was nothing to detain Park longer in London, while there was much to attract him to Scotland. Accordingly he returned to Foulshiels in the summer of 1799.
On the 2nd of August of that year he was married to Miss Anderson. Of the personality of this lady we know little beyond the simple facts that she was tall and handsome, amiable in disposition, with no special mental endowments, and if anything somewhat frivolous and pleasure-loving—characteristics very unlike what we should have expected in the wife of such a man as Park.
In personal appearance the young explorer must have been quite a match for his wife. The portrait of him which has come down to us shows a head of noble proportions. The fine brow speaks of his mental powers; the prominent, finely chiselled nose, firm, well-shaped mouth, and powerful jaws, indicate the iron will and marked individuality which he showed himself to possess. No less striking and attractive are the eyes, which look forth so calmly, aglow with truthfulness, self-possession, and confidence. In person he was tall, reaching quite six feet, and exceedingly well proportioned. His whole appearance was prepossessing.
It is impossible to say what were Park’s plans for his future life when he took to himself a wife. Probably they were but ill-defined even to himself. It may be safely concluded, however, that he had then no intention of returning to Africa. All the horrors of his recent experiences were still too strongly upon him to make the idea of a new journey welcome. Moreover, the after penalty of those months of starvation and atrocious fare had still to be paid by inveterate dyspepsia and its concomitant evils of gloom and despondency. While under its influence his sleep was much broken, and too often night was made one hideous nightmare by dreams of being back once more in captivity among the Moors of Ludamar, and subjected to the old tortures and indignities.
Probably, therefore, when he married, he did so in the belief that there would be no occasion for separation—no likelihood of his ever entering upon any engagements which should make him unable to fulfil his duty to his wife as a loving, ever-present protector and support.
At no time does Park ever seem to have been enamoured of his profession, and after the life he had recently led he felt a repugnance to settling down to its uncongenial routine.
For the moment, however, he did not feel called upon to come to an immediate decision as to his future work in life. The liberal remuneration which he had received from the African Association, together with the profits of his book, had placed him for the time being in easy circumstances. He could therefore afford to wait to see what might turn up. He had become well known. He had powerful friends. There was accordingly every likelihood that something congenial would be found for him. Meanwhile he resolved to settle down quietly at Foulshiels.
At this period his mother was still alive, and the farm was worked by one of his brothers. Most of the family had done well. One sister, as we have already seen, had married Mr. Dickson, who had risen both to moderate affluence and to considerable fame as a botanist. Another had found a husband in a well-to-do farmer in the neighbourhood. His brother Adam had gone through the same course as himself, and had become established as a doctor in Gravesend; while a second brother, Alexander, had been made under-sheriff for the county, the sheriff-principal being Sir Walter Scott.
Of this brother Scott himself gives us a sketch in his introduction to the “Lady of the Lake,” when recalling his doubts of the poem’s success:—
“I remember that about the same time a friend (Arch. Park) started in to ‘heeze up my hope,’ like the sportsman with his cutty gun in the old song. He was bred a farmer, but a man of powerful understanding, natural good taste, and warm poetical feeling, perfectly competent to supply the wants of an imperfect or irregular education. He was a passionate admirer of field sports, which we often pursued together.” And then Scott goes on to tell how he was in the habit of reading the poem to him to experiment as to the effect produced on one who was “but too favourable a representative of readers at large.” Archibald Park remained in Scott’s employment for many years, and was frequently his companion in his mountain rides.
In 1799, the Government made certain proposals to Park relative to his going out in some official capacity to New South Wales. Of this, however, nothing came, though whether the fault lay with the Government or with the explorer is not known.
The natural consequences of idleness to a man of Park’s personality and past life soon became apparent. With a wife of no particular depth of character and no special mental attainments, however attractive and amiable she might otherwise be, there could be but small absorption of his thoughts. With no other society, and no work to keep him occupied, there could be but one result—restlessness and revolt against the position in which he found himself, and the gradual upgrowth of the old longings and ideas—the irrepressible fever of travel. Coincidently he began to forget the hardships and dangers he had experienced, and as they grew less and less vivid, and gradually dropped into the background of his memory, the fascination of discovery, of travel in strange lands and among strange peoples—the wish to settle the unsolved mystery of the Niger—began anew to assert their power and possess him with ever-growing force.
For the time the African Association was resting on their oars as far as prosecuting their work from West Africa was concerned, though in 1798 Horneman had been despatched to penetrate to the Sudan from Egypt.
No doubt this was partly due to the enormous difficulties and ever present dangers which Park had described, partly also perhaps on account of the war then being waged with France.
In 1800 Goree had been captured, an event which inspired Park to write (July 31, 1800) to Sir Joseph Banks, pointing out its importance in relation to renewed attempts to penetrate the interior of the Continent. After describing his views on the subject, he adds—“If such are the views of Government, I hope that my exertions in some station or other may be of use to my country.”
In 1801 the negotiations with the Government relative to the New South Wales mission were resumed. A visit to London was found necessary for a satisfactory discussion of the matter, and accordingly we find Park in the metropolis in the early spring.
How deep and tender was his affection for his winsome wife is shown in a letter written to her during the visit—one of the few glimpses that have come down to us of the more private side of the explorer’s character.
The letter is dated March 12th, 1801, and is as follows:—
“My lovely Ailie,—Nothing gives me more pleasure than to write to you, and the reason why I delayed it a day last time was to get some money to send to you. You say you are wishing to spend a note upon yourself. My sweet Ailie, you may be sure I approve of it. What is mine is yours, and I receive much pleasure from your goodness in consulting me about such a trifle. I wish I had thousands to give you, but I know that my Ailie will be contented with what we have, and we shall live in the hope of seeing better days. I long very much to be with you, my love, and I was in great hopes of having things settled before now, but Sir Joseph (Banks) is ill, and I can do nothing till he recovers.
“I am happy to know you will go to New South Wales with me, my sweet wife. You are everything that I could desire; and wherever we go, you may be sure of one thing, that I shall always love you. Whenever I have fixed on this or any other situation I shall write to you. In the meantime, let nobody know till things are settled, as there is much between the cup and the lip.
“My lovely Ailie, you are constantly in my thoughts. I am tired of this place, but cannot lose the present opportunity of doing something for our advantage. When that is accomplished I shall not lose one moment. My darling, when we meet I shall be the happiest man on earth. Write soon, for I count the days till I hear from you, my lovely Ailie.”
Again the negotiations with the Government fell through, and there was nothing for it but for Park to return once more to Foulshiels disappointed and discouraged, but possessed more than ever by the fever of unrest—more and more under the influence of the Niger magnet—against which the sole counteracting forces were love for his wife, the dread of being separated from her, and his duty as a husband.
It was in this not very suitable mood that he was forced to face the fact that he must no longer depend on the vague hope of finding a congenial opening, but must put his hand to something, however alien to his tastes and aspirations. For a time he thought of taking a farm, but at last reluctantly came to the conclusion that his best course would be to resume his profession as a doctor. An opening presented itself in the neighbouring town of Peebles, where he went to reside in the month of October, occupying a house at the head of the Brygate, while his surgery was a small projecting building—since demolished—east from the first Chambers’ Institute. In a lane behind was his humble laboratory.