Ever since David had heard there were only forty practicing Christians in Kuruman, he had been disturbed. He stroked the end of his pen against his cheek and thought about it some more. Many people said that the Reverend Moffat was perhaps the most famous and most successful missionary ever to set foot in Africa. Yet he had converted only forty people in twenty years. That was only two converts per year. David stared at the wall of his small room. He was twenty-eight years old, and he could not hope to become as great a missionary as the Reverend Moffat. But even if he did, he would be forty-eight years old before he had forty converts of his own! The thought horrified David. He had come to Africa to make a difference, to leave a mark, not to stay in one tiny spot with a handful of converts following him around into old age.
Then, to David’s surprise, clarity suddenly came to his mind. David realized that living at Kuruman and working with the Reverend Moffat was not for him. The fires of a thousand unmapped and unreached villages were burning to the north of Kuruman, and David had to find some way to reach them. From that moment on, David Livingstone knew that every day he delayed moving north was a day lost.
Chapter 7
Farther North
I’d love to see the plans to expand the irrigation system,” said David politely, two mornings after arriving at Kuruman. It was just the chance he had been looking for—a chance to talk privately with Roger Edwards.
As the two men strolled between the rows of cauliflower and corn growing in the garden, David wondered how he should start. Finally, he cleared his throat. “Have you ever thought about going farther north?” he asked.
Roger Edwards looked startled. “Well, I suppose it has crossed my mind from time to time. But there’s so much work to be done here I’m not sure the committee in England would think it was a good idea.” He looked nervously at David.
“But don’t you want to see what’s north of here? Kuruman is so small. There must be much larger settlements not too far away. Hasn’t anyone gone to find out where they are?” asked David, pushing the point.
Roger nodded. “Yes, to some extent,” he replied. “Reverend Moffat has been to Namaqualand to the west, and he knows the Zulu tribes to the east, but I can’t say anyone has gone very far north. A man with the Church Missionary Society went up there for a few months, but he didn’t last.”
David wasn’t sure whether he should go on talking about his plan, but since he sensed some interest, some spirit of adventure in Roger Edwards, he continued. Bending down to examine the rich soil, he said, “I was thinking that perhaps I would take the wagon and oxen and do a little exploring. Would you like to come along?”
“But, but…” Roger was at a loss for words. He took a deep breath before continuing. “What would happen if Reverend Moffat found out? We’re meant to follow orders, not just go off and do what we want. I’ve been here ten years, and Robert Hamilton even longer. Neither of us has ever been told to explore the area north of here.”
“I know that,” said David soothingly, standing up to face his new friend, “but Reverend Moffat is staying on furlough longer than expected. He’ll be away for at least another year. In England we talked about my opening a new mission farther north, but he confessed he didn’t know much about the conditions up there. Wouldn’t it be good if we had some solid facts to give him when he got back? Perhaps a map with the names of the tribes and chiefs north of here on it, and a list of those who are open to our coming back to work among them. That could only help speed up the whole process.”
“But the station here. Who would look after it?” asked Roger.
“That’s not a problem,” said David. “After all, before we arrived, there were only you and your wife and Robert Hamilton here. If you and I went north, leaving William Ross and his wife behind, there would still be more than enough people to run things here.”
Roger laughed nervously. “I see you’ve thought it all through. I would have thought you’d have been tired of traveling after your journey here, but I see you have traveling in your blood. Let me think about it, David. I must say, it’s good to have someone with your enthusiasm here, but it does rock the boat a bit!” With that he patted David on the back. “Come on,” he said, “you told me earlier that you were interested in the workshop. Let me show you where we keep the tools.”
It was a week before Roger was ready to talk to David about going north. Roger was showing David how to repair a wagon wheel, an essential skill in Africa. As he tapped the spokes into place around the hub he said, “I’ve been thinking on what you said about going north, and it makes a certain amount of sense to me. There are too many missionaries here right now, and no new work can start until Reverend Moffat gets back. It could be a good idea to gather some facts and have some idea of what lies to the north.”
“You mean you’ll come with me?” asked David, trying to hide the excitement in his voice.
Roger nodded. “But I won’t be able to go until September. I have some translation work I promised to finish by then. You’d better let me handle things with Robert Hamilton, though. I doubt he’ll be too enthusiastic about the whole plan.”
David floated through the rest of the day. He was going farther north, and soon.
Over the next month, David learned all he could about what lay to the north of Kuruman. Sometimes Bechuana tribesmen would wander into the compound from that direction on their way to the coast. When they did, David or Roger would always question them about what conditions were like from where they had come. From these little pieces of information, David and Roger were able to discover several things. First, the tribe directly to the north of them was the Griquas. Over the past one hundred years, these people had pushed their way inland from the coast. They had many guns and were not afraid to use them on the other tribes around them. Indeed, in moving inland, they had displaced other tribes along the way. One of these tribes was the Bechuana, who had been pushed farther north. Recently, the Griquas had mounted a series of raids on Bechuana villages, and as a result, the village chiefs had become quite hostile to anyone from the outside.
When David heard this, he was more determined than ever to get out among the Bechuana people before they armed themselves with guns and would rather fight than talk. And by the sound of things, he didn’t have a moment to lose.
On September 24, 1841, nine weeks after David’s arrival in Kuruman, the wagon had been overhauled and restocked and the oxen were well rested. It was time for another adventure. David Livingstone and Roger Edwards, along with an African guide named Pomare and another African Christian, climbed onto the wagon and headed out through the gates of the mission compound. David looked back to see Robert Hamilton and William Ross nervously watching them go.
The wagon rumbled along the scrubby bush track that led northward. Once again David was fascinated with the array of wild animals he saw. He wished he were better at drawing, but he did his best to capture with words the way things looked. Herds of rhinoceros and elephants trampled through the bushes, while gazelles and springboks jumped and pranced in the distance, too skittish to allow the men to get close.
It was two weeks before Pomare pointed excitedly into the distance. “A village,” he said. “Over there.”
David Livingstone strained for his first look at a Bechuana person. He heard one before he saw one. “Luliloo, luliloo,” he heard a woman’s voice yelling. He assumed someone had spotted the wagon and was warning the others. Sure enough, within two minutes the ground around the wagon was alive with action. Large black men with glistening bodies, wearing leather tunics and carrying long, sharp spears, jumped and danced around the wagon.
“Are they friendly?” whispered David to Pomare, having no clue how to interpret their behavior.
“I don’t think they will hurt us,” replied Pomare, “but you must be careful not to show them your gun.”
David nodded. The last thing these people needed was to be introduced to deadly weapons as a by-product of hearing the gospel message.
Two of the men from the village grabbed the yoke of the lead oxen and guided them along the path and up and over a small rise. David gasped as they reached the top. Spread before them was a valley filled with round huts. Each hut had a perfectly cone-shaped straw roof. David caught a glimpse of women and children peering around the edge of the doorways of the huts.
“They are telling us to get off the wagon,” said Pomare as they rolled to an easy stop. “I think they want to introduce us to their chief.”
David climbed down from the wagon and ran his fingers through his wiry brown hair. This was going to be a very big moment; he was about to be introduced to his first African chief.
“Wait here,” instructed Pomare, interpreting the Bantu words of their hosts. A minute later David heard the loud, rhythmic beating of drums. He turned in the direction it was coming from and saw a large man dressed in a lion skin cloak. The mane of the skin was pulled around the man’s neck, making the man look especially regal. The man was surrounded by warriors, each carrying a spear and a gray, rhinoceros skin shield.
“Greetings,” said David to Pomare. “Tell him we bring greetings.”
Pomare spoke in Bantu and then turned back to the missionaries. “Chief Moseealele says you are welcome. These are Bechuana people, and this village is called Mabotsa.”
David smiled a broad smile. He wished he could speak Bantu, because then he would be able to understand everything that was being said. It frustrated him to think these people had so much information he could not discuss with them.
The exciting afternoon turned into an equally exciting evening. Chief Moseealele ordered a cow be killed for a feast, and as they ate and drank together, the missionaries watched the people dance and chant. David was captivated by all he saw, and that night by the light of his oil lamp, he tried to write down everything that had happened. As he blew out his lamp and lay down to sleep on the woven mat that had been provided for him, he thought he saw the dirt on the floor move. He shook his head and looked again. He told himself he must have imagined it as he pulled a blanket up over his shoulders.
The next morning David awoke and stretched his body. When he sat up, he stared at his fingers. Between each finger were dozens of tiny, dark blue balls not much bigger than pinpricks.
“What’s this?” David asked Roger Edwards, who was still lying on his mat.
Roger shot straight out of bed as soon as he saw David’s hands. “Tampan,” he exclaimed. “I should have thought of this! Tampan are African lice, and they burrow beneath the skin in the night.”
David went to scratch his hand.
“No, don’t do that!” yelled Roger. “If you scratch, their heads will fall off inside, and then you’ll have to dig them out with a needle.”
“Then how do I get rid of them?” asked David. “They do come out, don’t they?”
Roger grunted. “Yes,” he said. “They come out, but not easily. First we’ll have to douse them with alcohol and then burn them out with the end of a hot needle.”
The next hour was spent laboriously removing the lice one by one. David learned from Roger Edwards that the lice live in the dirt.
“So that’s why I thought I saw the floor moving last night. It was all the tampan lining up to jump on me!” David said. “But how do we stop them? Surely we can’t do this every morning for the rest of our trip.”
“No,” replied Roger. “The problem is that we slept on a bare floor. The floors back at the mission house are all plastered over, so the lice can’t live in them. Tampan also don’t like fire, as you can see.” He pulled a needle from the fire and very carefully pressed it against one of the tampan on David’s left hand. The tampan sizzled with the heat, let off a peculiar odor, and then dropped off. “If we have to sleep on the ground, we need to scorch the area and lay a tarpaulin down before we pitch our tent.”
