For the past seven or eight years, there had been rumors that David Livingstone was dead or dying. The year before, in May 1873, a fresh rumor surfaced indicating he had died in a native hut in the heart of Africa. It was hard to know whether this was true or not. Even when a body was carried to Zanzibar by two natives who claimed it was the body of David Livingstone, it was difficult to say whether it really was or whether it was the body of some other white man. However, as the paper spread in front of Mary confirmed, the body was without a doubt that of David Livingstone. A famous surgeon in London had examined it and found the fracture in the left arm from an incident in which Livingstone had been mauled by a lion.
“It says he died inland on the banks of the Molilamo River, still looking for the source of the Nile. His servants buried his heart under a tree right where he died and embalmed his body. Then it says….” Mary ran her finger across the text to find her place. “It says, ‘The faithful servants Susi and Chuma then carried the body of their honored master many hundreds of miles to the coast so it could be transported back for burial in his beloved homeland.’” Mary shook her head. “They must have loved him a great deal to go to all that trouble,” she said.
Later that night as Mary lay in bed, she thought about David Livingstone and all his brave adventures. Then she remembered his famous words, “I don’t care where we go as long as we go forward.” Go forward, Mary thought to herself. I’m not going forward. I’m not going anywhere. I’m twenty-seven years old, I work in a cotton mill twelve hours a day, six days a week, and the little spare time I have I spend helping out at church. But that’s not enough. There has to be more to life for me. She rolled over and prayed, “God, I want to go forward like David Livingstone. Send me somewhere, anywhere. Just send me out to be a missionary.”
When Mary arose at five o’clock the next morning, her mind was remarkably clear, so clear, in fact, she wondered why she hadn’t thought of it earlier. Of course. God wanted her to be the missionary in the family. Robert and John couldn’t go now. They were both dead, but she could go alone. Her two sisters were old enough to look after her mother. Two mill wages were ample to keep three people. Besides, Mary told herself, if she lived frugally on the mission field, she might even be able to send a little money home to help support her mother.
It took Mary a long time to gather the courage to tell her mother of her plan. Mrs. Slessor had been dependent on Mary for many years now, and it wasn’t going to be easy for her to accept her daughter’s leaving. Days slipped by without Mary’s saying anything, until Mary finally realized that if she didn’t tell her mother soon, her dream of being a missionary would start to fade and she would end up spending the rest of her life weaving fabric in a cotton mill in Dundee, Scotland.
“Mother,” Mary began after lunch one Sunday, “I want to apply to the Foreign Missions Board to go overseas and take the gospel message to the heathen, just like David Livingstone. I’ve thought about this for a long time, and I think you and Janie and Susan can all manage without me.” She held her breath and waited for her mother’s reaction.
“I couldn’t be more proud, lassie,” said Mrs. Slessor, getting up from her chair and rushing over to hug her daughter. “To think I’ll be reading about a ‘Missionary Slessor’ in the Missionary Record after all!”
“But I hate to leave you,” replied Mary, a little taken aback by her mother’s unexpected enthusiasm.
“And a part of me will hate to see you go, Mary. But I’d never enjoy another day with you if I thought you’d stayed home instead of answering God’s call just because of me. Susan and Janie can look after me well enough. You be sure to write now.”
“You talk as if I’m leaving tomorrow,” laughed Mary with relief. “There’s a lot of hurdles to overcome. First, I have to get accepted by the missions board. I have only two years of schooling. David Livingstone was a doctor and an ordained minister when he became a missionary. I’m a far cry from that!”
“That’s true,” replied her mother, “but you have made the most of the opportunities you’ve had. Hardly any of the mill girls can read a word, and there you are reading English literature in your spare time. And not only that, but you’ve done so well with the Sunday school.”
“I suppose you’re right,” said Mary, shrugging her shoulders. “I know I could never run a mission station or anything that grand, but I would be a good assistant to someone….” Her voice trailed off, and as her eyes met her mother’s, Mary knew they were both thinking about Robert and John.
“Where do you think you’ll go? There are so many places where the church is working,” inquired her mother.
“I don’t know. I don’t have any special skills, so I’ll go wherever I’m sent,” Mary answered.
The United Presbyterian Church of Scotland had missionaries working in India, China, Japan, and Africa. In her heart, Mary really wanted to go to Calabar on the west coast of Africa. However, she thought she had a better chance of being accepted as a missionary if she didn’t name a specific mission field were she wanted to serve. With no real skills, she would consider herself blessed to be posted anywhere.
Finally, in the winter of 1875, after completing mountains of paperwork, Mary was called to an interview with the local division of the Foreign Missions Board. The board members had read her application and now wanted to talk with her in person.
Mary knocked on the large ornately carved door at the side of Wishart Memorial Church and waited. She chided herself for feeling so nervous. After all, she knew many of the people on the board—one of them was her good friend, James Logie. Still, this was one of the most important days of her life, and she wanted everything to go right. Today she would find out whether there was a place for a twenty-eight-year-old weaver on the mission field and, if there was, where it would be.
The sturdy door swung open, and Mary was invited into a large wood-paneled room where seven men sat around an oval table. James Logie greeted her and invited her to sit down. Mary was glad to sit—her knees were knocking and her legs wobbling.
“Now, Miss Slessor, we have considered your application carefully,” began one of the church elders, an older, balding man whom Mary did not know well.
Mary held her breath, her heart thumping loudly in her chest.
“As it happens,” the elder went on, “we have a need for a teacher in Calabar. Would you be interested in going there?”
“Calabar?” Mary let out a gasp. They wanted to send her to Calabar! She could hardly believe it! For a moment she forgot to answer the question. Then she remembered where she was. “Oh, yes! I would love to go to Calabar. I can’t think of anywhere I would rather be!” she exclaimed. “When can I go?”
The church elder smiled at her. “It’s good to see such enthusiasm, but it’s a hard place we’re sending you to, remember that. Several of the other board members had some doubts about your going.” He paused for effect before going on. “After all, you’re a tiny lass. Africa is a hard mission field, and Calabar is the hardest of all. Still, you have proved yourself with your Sunday school work.”
“Thank you, thank you,” replied Mary. “I won’t let you down.”
The meeting lasted several more minutes, and Mary had many questions, though only a few of them could be answered right then. The committee recommended that Mary go to Edinburgh for three months of formal teacher training and plan on sailing for Africa in the late summer of 1876. A veteran Scottish missionary couple, Mr. and Mrs. Thomson, would be returning to Nigeria at that time, and it would be good if Mary could sail on the same ship with them.
“I’ll be in touch with you soon,” said James Logie, patting Mary on the arm as he showed her to the door. “There’s a lot of planning to be done, but we’re here to help you. Congratulations. You’ll make a grand missionary, I’m sure of that.”
Mary walked home in a daze. She had spent so much time preparing herself for being rejected that she could hardly absorb the reality of what had happened. The words of James Logie kept playing in her mind, “You’ll make a grand missionary, I’m sure of that.” Mary wasn’t so sure, but she would try her hardest. God had something for her to do in Calabar. In truth, Mary had no inkling that day of what lay ahead of her, the adventures she would have, the dangers she would face, and the fame that would follow her.
Mrs. Slessor was thrilled to hear that Mary had been accepted and, along with Susan and Janie, did whatever she could to help Mary prepare. She and Mary scanned past copies of the Missionary Record to see whether there was any information they had overlooked about Calabar, even though Mary had read the newsletters so many times she virtually knew them by heart. One issue of the newsletter in particular fascinated her. It contained a history of the mission in Calabar. The Calabar mission had been started thirty years before in Duke Town by the Reverend Hope Waddell. Its purpose was to have missionaries work among a group of natives who had originally been shipped off to Jamaica as slaves. Jamaica was a British colony, and when slavery was outlawed in all British territories in 1807, the slaves were set free. Many of them wanted to return to their homeland. As a result, a large group of ex-slaves had settled in Calabar, and missionaries had been sent out to Africa to work among them.
Mary was fascinated to think that after reading about the mission for so many years she was finally going to see it for herself. She might even get to meet the children of some of those ex-slaves. It all sounded so exotic. She had tried many times before to imagine the missionary compound on Mission Hill above Duke Town. She knew the names of the four other small towns dotted up the Calabar River: Old Town, Creek Town, Eknetu, and farthest inland, Okofiorong. Each of these five towns had its own mission station led by an ordained Presbyterian minister assisted by two or three schoolteachers.
Mary was assigned to work at the original mission site in Duke Town under the guidance of the Reverend and Mrs. Anderson. She had heard the Andersons speak at a missionary meeting several years before. Of course, she had no idea then that she would be one of their teaching assistants. If she had, she would have asked them a million questions! Still, it was comforting to have some idea of the people she was going to be living with.
Soon December arrived, time for Mary to begin her teacher training in Edinburgh. She found leaving difficult, even though she would be back in Dundee to say good-bye before leaving for Africa. Mary loved everything about Edinburgh. Huge Edinburgh Castle, the ancient home of Scottish kings, sat atop Castle Rock. Each day Mary stared up at its imposing stone wall and eight-hundred-year-old turrets as she walked along Princess Street on her way to Canongate Normal School, where she was paired with a qualified teacher. Mary diligently took notes on how to teach children to read and write and how to manage a classroom. It wasn’t long before she herself was teaching the class, with the other teacher giving her helpful hints and advice.
Advice on teaching wasn’t the only kind of advice Mary got in Edinburgh. Many members at Edinburgh’s Bristo Street Presbyterian Church gave her advice concerning Calabar. Some in the congregation thought it was a foolish idea for her to go there. Hadn’t she heard that Africa was known as the white man’s grave? Didn’t she know that only one in every five missionaries lasted the first four years on the mission field? Didn’t she know that wild animals lurked along pathways, mysterious diseases struck people dead overnight, and natives dressed in wild costumes roamed the jungle, killing at will? Mary did know, but it did not deter her one bit. It almost seemed to have the opposite effect. Mary became more convinced than ever that she should be going to Calabar. When one friend begged her not to go, pointing out that she would probably not survive her first year in Africa, Mary replied, “Calabar is a post of honor. Since few missionaries volunteer for that section, I wish to go because my Master needs me there the most.”
