CHAPTER XXVI. DEATH OF FRANK POCOKE.
Frank Pocoke, as stated previously, joined the expedition under Stanley as a servant, and his brother had fallen at what proved to be the mere outset of the real main expedition, subsequently Frank, by his intelligence, geniality, ability and courage, and perhaps quite as much by the necessity of companionship that Stanley felt the need of in that wild region, and which only a white, civilized man could furnish, had risen above the position he had taken till Stanley looked upon him more as a friend than as a servant. This was natural; he was the only man he could talk with in English; the only man who had the taste and manners of civilized life; the only one who in the long halt could in any way be his companion; and, more than all, the only man who could certainly be depended on to stand by him in the hour of danger to the last, and fall, if fall they must, side by side. Whoever else might prove false in these vast untrodden solitudes, Frank Pocoke, he well knew, would not be one of them. Under such circumstances and conditions, Stanley would not have been the true man he is if he had not lifted the servant up to the place of a friend. It was therefore but natural that in the long mental discussion at Ziangwe as to whether he should return or choose some other route than through the hostile tribes whose territory the waters of the Lualaba washed, or push on at all hazards by following its current to the sea, that he should take his quondam servant into his confidence and they should together talk over all the probabilities of the different routes to be adopted. In another place we have shown what those difficulties were, and what the real or imaginable obstacles were that confronted Stanley if he determined to follow the Lualaba at all hazards to the sea.
In speaking of the death of young Pocoke, we wish to show what influence he had at last in fixing the determination that led to his own death and to Stanley's fame as an explorer. One day, while Stanley was discussing with Pocoke the wisest course to pursue, the latter said: "Mr. Stanley, suppose we toss up, to determine whether we shall follow the Lualaba as far as the Lowra, and then strike off for Monbruto, or follow it to the sea?"
Stanley, who had become almost indifferent as to whether one course or the other would end his life, agreed, and a toss-up was made, the result being on the side of following the river to the sea. The drawing of straws was then resorted to. Three trials of chances were made, and the decision of fate, as proposed by Pocoke, was to follow the river to the sea. He little thought that accidental toss was a toss-up for his own life, and that so trivial an affair settled his fate forever. We know what was Stanley's final decision, and though he does not acknowledge that this trial by chances had any effect on his final determination, the experience of human nature, since the world began, proves that it must have had. Even Napoleon, who believed that Providence was on the side of the strong battalions, had an equally strong belief in his "star." While it, doubtless, did have more or less influence on Stanley, it did not weaken his faith in the "strong battalions," which was, in his case, a wise provision, so far as he could make it, against all possible and probable contingencies.
We have said thus much to show the real relations that Frank Pocoke at last sustained to the expedition. In the long and terrible march through the gloomy forest after leaving Zywague, and before finally launching on the Lualaba, to quit it no more till they reached the sea or lay at rest forever on its solitary banks, Pocoke's shoes had become completely worn out. In traversing, half-barefoot, the tangled undergrowth, they had at last given out entirely, and the result was his feet became chafed, and at last, through constant irritation, caused by the necessity of hastening forward at all hazards, the abrasions that would have healed, could they have made a short halt, became ulcers, so that when they again struck the Lualaba he was unable to walk any farther, and Stanley said that if at any time they would have to leave the river and carry around rapids, Frank would have to be carried also. Stanley always led the way over the rapids and selected the paths for hauling around the canoes, while Pocoke superintended the soldiers, distributed the rations, etc. But now he was placed on the sick-list.
On the morning of the 3d of June, they came to the Mowwa Falls, around which they must carry and the men shouldered the goods and baggage and started overland for Zinga, three miles distant, while Stanley attempted to run two small falls, named Massesse and Massassa, with the boat's crew. Hugging the shore for about three-quarters of a mile, they came at last to a lofty cliff, against which the tide threw the down-rushing stream back in such fury that great whirlpools were formed and they steered for the centre of the river and endeavored to stem the tide, but failed. After fighting fiercely against the raging of whirlpools, they tried again to advance in another direction, when Stanley discovered that his boat was fast filling with water, while the surface became still more terribly agitated at a point toward which he had been unconsciously drifting. The danger now became imminent. Shouting to the men to leave off bailing and pull for life for the shore, he threw off his coat, belt and shoes, to be in readiness to swim when the boat should capsize, as he expected it would. A wild whirlpool was near the boat and for a moment it seemed certain that it would drift into the vortex. But by a strong effort it was forced away and they pulled for shore. By the time they had reached it, the leaky boat was half-full of water. Finding it impossible to proceed in it he returned to Mowwa Falls, and after a short rest took a canoe and tried to proceed. But while he was talking with Pocoke, the crew had scattered, and as those who had gone to Zinga had not returned, he determined to go overland and look after the goods, and leave to his chief captain, Manwa Sera, the supervision of the passage of the falls. He told him to first send forward a reserve canoe with short ropes fastened to the sides. "The crew," he said, "will pick their way carefully down the river until near the falls, then let the men judge for themselves whether they are able to take the canoe farther. Above all things stick to the shore and do not play with the river." He then bade Pocoke good-bye, saying he would send him his breakfast immediately with hammock bearers, shook hands and turned to climb the mountain toward the camp.
Sending back the breakfast as he had promised, he paid a visit to the kings of Zinga. Becoming anxious about the boats, as this was the first time he had ever permitted any one but himself to lead the way in any dangerous part of the river, he about three o'clock took his glass and going to the shore began to look up the river that came tearing out of the mountain like a wild animal and shaking the shores with its loud thunder. Suddenly he saw something black tossing amid the turbulent water. Scanning it closely, he saw it was an upturned canoe and to its sides several men were clinging. He instantly dispatched two chiefs and ten men to a bend toward which the wreck was drifting. The crew, however, knowing there was another cataract just below, attempted to right the boat and save themselves; but, unable to do so, got on the keel and began to paddle for dear life with their hands toward the shore. As they got near the far bank, he saw them jump off the boat and swim for shore. They had hardly reached it when the overturned boat shot by Stanley like an arrow and with one fierce leap dashed over the brink of the cataract and disappeared in the foam and tumult below. In a few minutes a messenger arrived out of breath, saying that eleven men were in that canoe, only eight of whom were saved—the other three being drowned, one of whom was Pocoke. Stanley turned fiercely on Uledi, his coxswain, and demanded how he came to let Pocoke, a lame man, go in the rescue canoe. "Ah, master," he replied, "we could not help it, he would not wait. He said, 'since the canoe is going to camp I will go too. I am hungry and cannot wait any longer. I cannot walk and I do not want you to carry me, that the natives may all laugh at me. No, I will go with you;' and refusing to listen to Captain Manwa Sera, who remonstrated with him, he got in and told us to cast off. We found no trouble in forcing our way against the back current. We struck the down current, and when we were near the fall I steered her into the cove to take a good look at it first. When I had climbed over the rocks and stood over it, I saw that it was a bad place—that it was useless to expect any canoe to go over it without capsizing, and I went to the little master and told him so. He would not believe me, but sent other men to report on it. They told the same story: that the fall could not be passed by shooting over it in a canoe. Then he said we were always afraid of a little water and that we were no men. 'All right,' I said, 'if you say cast off I am ready. I am not afraid of any water, but if anything happens my master will be angry with me.' 'Cast off,' the little master said, 'nothing will happen; am I not here?' You could not have counted ten, master, before we were all sorry. The cruel water caught us and tossed and whirled us about and shot us here and shot us there, and the noise was fearful. Suddenly the little master shouted 'Look out! take hold of the ropes! and he was tearing his shirt off when the canoe, which was whirling round and round with its bow in the air, was dragged down, down, down, until I thought my chest would burst; then we were shot out into daylight again and took some breath. The little master and two of the men were not to be seen, but soon I saw the little master with his face upward but insensible. I instantly struck out for him to save him, but we were both taken down again and the water seemed to be tearing my legs away; but I would not give in; I held my breath hard then and I came to the surface, but the little master was gone forever. This is my story, master." Stanley then examined the men separately, to ascertain if it were true and found it was. This man was brave but not foolhardy, and the best and most reliable in the whole party.
DROWNING OF FRANK POCOKE.
Stanley very briefly expressed the sadness and loneliness of his feelings that night as he sat and looked on the empty tent of young Pocoke, but no language can express the utter desolation of his situation. His position, surroundings, prospects, all combined to spread a pall black as midnight over his spirit and fill his heart with the gloomiest forebodings. Sitting alone in the heart of a country never before trod by the foot of a white man, on the banks of a mysterious river, on whose bosom he was to be borne he knew not where, the gloomy forest stretching away beyond him, the huts of strange natives behind him, the water in deep shadows rushing by, on whose foam and whirlpools his friend had gone down, and whose body then lay tossing amid the broken rocks, the strangely silent tropical sky, brilliant with stars, bending over him, the thoughts of home and friends far away caused a sad and solemn gathering of emotions and feelings around his heart till they rushed over it like that rushing water, and made him inconceivably sad there in the depths of the forest. With no one to talk to in his native tongue, no one to counsel with, without one friend on whom he could rely, left all alone to meet the unknown future, was to be left desolate indeed. Before, he knew there was one arm on which he always could lean, one stout, brave heart that would stand unflinchingly by his side in the deadliest peril, share all his dangers, and go cheerfully to the very gates of death with him. But now he was alone, with none but natives around him, with whom he must meet all the unknown dangers of the untrodden wilderness before him—perhaps be buried by them in the gloomy forest or left to be devoured by cannibals. It was enough to daunt the bravest spirit, appall the stoutest heart, and that lonely night on the banks of the Lualaba will live in Stanley's memory forever.
Stanley pronounced a high eulogium on his young friend, saying that he was a true African explorer—he seemed to like the dangers and even the sufferings of the expedition, so well did they harmonize with his adventurous spirit. Quick and resolute, he was always docile and in the heat and excitement of battle would obey Stanley's slightest wish with alacrity. He seemed fitted for an explorer; no danger daunted him, no obstacle discouraged him, while his frame, though slight, was tough and sinewy, and he was capable of undergoing any amount of labor and could endure the heaviest strain. He had so endeared himself to Stanley that the latter said, in a letter to young Pocoke's parents, that his death took away all the joy and exultation he should otherwise have felt in accomplishing the great task the two had undertaken together.