12/22/03

 A banquet with the Sultan of Zanzibar. With Henry Norton Stanley on his expedition to find Livingston. Flogging spies.

After leaving the Cape of Good Hope, the “Glasgow” laid her course for Zanzibar, the first port of call on the east coast of Africa, included in the East Indian Station of the British Navy and under the protection of Great Britain. Sir Henry Morton Stanley had not yet arrived on his search for Dr. Livingstone, which was later to give the place the worldwide notoriety it later achieved.

When we dropped anchor in this never-to-be-forgotten port, Zanzibar presented only a replica of the typical Arab town, with its alley of bazaars, its squalid and mud-built dens of filth and iniquity, its market place and slave auction block – all dominated by the palace of the Sultan, which was built on higher ground and commanded a view of the ocean.

We had no sooner anchored in the roadstead when Sate, Bucket & Company reached the ship with their bumboat loaded with a supply of fresh bread, meat, and sweet potatoes for ship account, and for the men, plantains, bananas, oranges, mangoes, and “sudden jerk,” a concoction of boiled rice, sugar, and native ingredients that gave it a dark brown color and a diabolical flavor. There was also a stew that was popular with the crew, and designated by the suggestive name of “curried snake.” Everything but the bread, meat, and spuds was bought with the men’s own money, and if coin was scarce the postage stamps they found in their letters from home passed current at par.

The bumboat was operated by two Arabs. Sate was tall and lean while Bucket was short and fat – a perfect Mutt and Jeff. If Mr. Fisher had ever been in Zanzibar I would certainly suspect that it was from this place that he got his idea. These worthies, who pretended to be honest traders, in reality were the ringleaders of the gang that controlled the slave trade of the African coast.

Zanzibar in 1870 was the great clearing port and market for an immense territory, and the traffic in slaves went on unrestricted by law. It was perfectly legitimate for a band of Arab cutthroats to raid a village, put iron collars on the necks of the whole marketable population, lock them to a single chain, and then march them for days to the Zanzibar market, where they were sold to the highest bidder. From there they had been shipped to America previous to the Civil War, and to other places. The Sultan, old Tippoo Tib, received a tribute or royalty of fifteen pounds on each transaction, and as this constituted the entire revenue of the throne, the trade was wide open. The native villages in each direction from Zanzibar contributed to these raids, and it was because of the ease with which the slaves could be transported by coastwise dhows that the bulk of the trade followed the sea route.

The arrival of a British man-of-war, followed by a proclamation by its captain that thereafter the slave traffic in these waters was contraband and that any dhow with slaves on board would be subject to capture, carried consternation to the Arab headquarters. The Sultan responded by inviting all the officers of Glasgow to a banquet at the palace. All accepted with the exception of Captain Jones, and the next afternoon the commander, lieutenants, midshipmen, and officers of the marines, in full dress, were presented to Tippoo Tib, the Sultan of the Dominion of Zanzibar.

Tippoo Tib was a powerfully built Arab of about sixty years. He was dark and swarthy, his face partly hidden by a heavy gray beard and his head covered by a high turban. He wore the usual white robe of Arab sheiks, but I saw no jewelry on his person save a heavy diamond ring on his left forefinger. I looked around for his crown and scepter, but not being in sight I concluded they were kept in the royal treasury for a more portentous occasion. The Sultan was squatted on the throne of lion and leopard skins, surrounded by a villainous a looking mob of bandits as ever slit a throat. Over all, a punkah embroidered richly in gold and silver stretched across the room, waving gently over the guests. Arab eyes bulged in admiration of our uniforms, some of which were resplendent with medals and gold lace.

An interpreter conveyed in English the pious protestations of fealty and obedience from His Majesty to Queen Victoria, and our commander replied in diplomatic fashion, so that everything was serene. Tippoo then rose from his skins and led the way to the chamber adjoining.

The banquet hall almost took my breath away with its wonderful adornments. The walls were hung with tapestries, oil paintings, gold ornaments, figures of men in armor, and firearms from the date of their invention – a collection that would be priceless in any museum. In the center of the room a long, low table, just off the floor, was loaded with the most luscious fruits in the land, candied fruits, nuts, dates, all in dishes of chased gold; cigars in ebony boxes; wines, rum, and arrack in delicate containers of cut glass near every guest. The Sultan seated himself cross-legged at the head of the layout, with our crowd on each side of the royal person, the aforesaid “courtiers” occupying the rest of space about the board.

For an hour we ate sweetmeats, fruits, and other delicious morsels, drank the wine, and smoked Tippoo’s cigars, and when the old Sultan thought his guests properly primed, he ordered in his harem of concubines, ranged the beauties in a line, and invited us (through the interpreter) to take our choice. At this interesting moment Commander Hope suddenly thought of an important commission that could be accomplished only by the immediate return to the ship of his three midshipmen, where further instructions would be forthcoming. An escort was detailed to conduct us to the boat, and after expressing our regards through the interpreter to the old reprobate on the throne of skins and casting a lingering glance at the loveliness lined up against the wall, we made our exit. Being young and unsophisticated we never suspected the commander of any duplicity until we reached the ship and found our “commission” was a hoax.

As the days wore on a new interest was aroused by the arrival early in January 1871 of Henry M. Stanley, who had been sent out by James Gordon Bennett, publisher of the New York Herald, to locate David Livingstone, an itinerant missionary who was somewhere in the interior of Africa uplifting the savage tribes. Stanley proposed to organize his safari at Zanzibar.

My spirit of adventure had not been suppressed by the collapse of my diamond expedition, and as soon as I could get the ear of the New York newspaperman I poured into it such a tale of my accomplishments that he promised to take me along if the consent of Captain Jones could be gained. The latter at first gave Stanley faint encouragement, frankly telling him that I was wild kid, and while he was more than willing to lose me it would entail a vacancy on his staff, which might occasion some explaining at the Admiralty. A party or two at Stanley’s, however, disposed of the captain’s objections, and I was given indefinite leave.

The safari got under way on the morning of March 21, 1871 and formed a line of carriers, mostly slaves, half a mile long, each black having a package of supplies on his head. Stanley, with his guide and interpreter, was in the lead. Fred De Gama, who knew Livingstone, and I moved from end to end to assist in any breakdown and get the line going again. The journey into the interior was at a snails pace, through the usual open veldt or desert, mostly sand and some patches of timber, with little game.

After few days of travel I became sick, having shortness of breath, dizziness, and headache. Stanley, who knew something about medicine and had a box of drugs, diagnosed my case as liver compliant and without more ado ordered me back to the ship. On a light cot slung on a pole resting on the shoulders of two of the carriers, with a headman in charge who carried our supplies, I was taken back to the “Glasgow,” where in the sick bay I hovered between life and death for several weeks.

During my absence the ship had been refitted, painted, and a couple of divers had scraped the barnacles from the bottom of the vessel, so that she looked as if she had just come from dry dock. The crew had been given their shore leave and was restive for action. Through my convalescence the ship was active in running down slave dhows, and had put the fear of the British Navy in the Arab conscience to such an extent that extraordinary exertions were put forth to gain information as to the movements of the ship’s boats, which had begun to patrol the coast.