None of them seemed to adapt to the climatic conditions, whereas Mary had grown up in them. Her complexion didn’t redden. It was already darkened, from years in the sun, and her skin toughened. She always wore a cotton bonnet, hideously unfashionable, but it protected the crown of her head from the full glare of the sun – she had no thought of guarding against damage to her face. Utterly without vanity, she had developed stratagems over the years to keep as cool as possible and yet stay decent. Since she had no truck with fashion, tight clothes and fitted bodices were not in her wardrobe. She wore dresses as light and loose as possible, even if they exaggerated her stoutness. Miss Mackenzie, who was also fat, could not be persuaded to make the same concessions. She suffered most of all – getting dressed in the morning was an absurd performance as she struggled into her usual apparel. Dr Kirk noted irritably that part of the deck had to be screened off while she enrobed and that the business took an age.
What made the heat and the mosquito bites worse for these European women was the impossibility of taking a bath. Mary had grown up knowing how precious water was, far too precious to waste on bathing more than once in a while. Washing piece-meal was all that could be indulged in, and even then sharing water with another was obligatory. The men could risk taking dips in the Zambesi but it was unimaginable for the women. Mary did not fuss but the others longed for this most basic of comforts. No wife ever complained less than Mary about personal freshness being impossible to maintain, and that kind of femininity was never important to Livingstone any more than it was to Mary.
It was a relief when the Pioneer reached Shupunga House, on 18 February. This was an old Portuguese stone building, on the left bank of the river, built on a slightly higher piece of ground a couple of hundred yards (about 180 m) from the water’s edge. It was only one storey, and in a poor state of repair, but it was a house with four solid walls, and seemed impressive after the cramped boat. There were trees all round it, making it pleasantly shady – lemon, orange and mango trees and a magnificent baobab measuring 75 feet (23 m) in circumference. On 1 March, there was a farewell party for Miss Mackenzie and those going on to join the Universities Mission. Devereux commented that ‘with my usual ill-luck’ he was ‘let in for proposing the health of Mrs L.’:
I was very unprepared … began with stupid flattery and high compliments, holding her up to a giddy height for so devotedly following Dr L. … towards the middle and end found myself spluttering … sat down rather ashamed … thinking what a great ass I must appear more especially to Dr L. for the lady in question did not pay attention to it …
Mary was more used than the young naval officer could know to that kind of speech. She had taken no notice of Lord Shaftesbury’s praise and she took none now. The wife of a famous man simply had to become accustomed to such things, and if she had any sense, which Mary did have, rated them accordingly. She paid more attention to what was said about her husband, enjoying the praise given to him. But by then praise was not what the diarists were recording in secret. Instead, even Livingstone’s most fervent admirers were having doubts about his ability to be in charge. Devereux, surprisingly, observed that he had ‘rarely seen a man so easily led as Dr L.’ and wondered at his distinct lack of competent leadership. Stewart, for his part, was shocked at his hero’s short temper. But maybe, it was thought, things would improve once the mission party departed. It was decided that Captain Wilson and Dr Kirk would take Miss Mackenzie and Mrs Burrup ahead to meet their men, in an open boat up as far as the confluence of the Zambesi and the Shire rivers, and then on overland. They left on 2 March, and Mary looked forward to her husband’s being much more relaxed now that this irritant had been removed. She even hoped to enjoy the rest of the expedition.
V
AT THE BEGINNING, Mary quite relished the days spent waiting at Shupunga, as they prepared to continue upriver to the Murchison Cataracts and onwards to Lake Nyasa, but the atmosphere among the rest of the expedition party was tense. She alone had absolute faith in her husband’s judgement. Everyone else was starting to think his stubbornness would lead them all to disaster – it was obvious that, with more than 300 miles (480 km) still to travel, and the level of the river falling (as it did every March) their objective would not be reached as easily as he had predicted. The new steamer, which was to be used beyond the cataracts, would have to be partially assembled and towed up the river. But Rae, the engineer, had still not even bolted the hull together and until he did so, no progress could be made. Everyone except Livingstone thought facts should be faced: they would fail to reach the Shire Highlands, this year anyway.
But Livingstone would not give up. He never gave up. If he changed plans, it was always because change was forced upon him. Mary was used to this trait of character, choosing to see it as one of her husband’s strengths, and the chief reason for his previous successes. Whereas his iron determination scared others, it appears to have been reassuring to Mary, who rarely tried to influence its course. Many a wife would have seen it as her role to persuade her husband that he was being blindly obstinate and that he should rethink his position, but with few exceptions Mary was perfectly content to trust Livingstone without question – he was her man, he was her husband, he was the leader and as his wife, she was happy to follow. She undoubtedly heard the mutterings of concern, if not rebellion, but ignored them. What, after all, did the others know about the Zambesi compared with her husband? At his side, she felt superior to all of them. It never seemed to cross her mind either to do what so many wives did (and still do), which is to let him think he was getting his own way but meanwhile, in a subtle, behind-the-scenes fashion, manipulate him. Such wifely wiles, perhaps unfortunately, were not for Mary.
But even she, as the overwhelmingly loyal wife, had to admit there was a serious problem with supplies. When the expedition started, food had been plentiful and their meals were described with relish in the various journals. Mary was in charge of the cooking when encampments were made on the river-banks and had seen to it that everyone ate well. Devereux in particular was full of admiration for the dishes she produced from the iron pots on open fires – ‘onions, venison … salt, coconut milk …’ all combined to produce delicious stews and curries, and washed down with weak claret and water. But by the beginning of March, even though the Mackenzie party had left and there were six fewer mouths to feed, food was frighteningly short and complaints began. Mary was used to existing on very little if necessary, and so of course was her husband, and neither of them was particular or squeamish about what they ate – food was only fuel for the body in times of want. But food was more than that to Stewart and Devereux, and they watched anxiously as it diminished in quality and quantity. Mary, of course, had no experience of managing supplies for a large household. Stewart was appalled to find that by 8 March she had nothing to offer them but a little dried fish to be consumed with sweet biscuits. All the meat had gone. Nothing was left but flour, tea, coffee and sugar, and not a great deal of those. Mary, overwhelmed by the lack of provisions, was no longer so content.
As to the ‘weak claret’ that had accompanied other feasts, no mention is made of it, but Stewart rather suggestively reports at this point that ‘Mrs L. said she was ill and lay on the deck most of the day’ so maybe there was still some wine left at least. She worked on other days, however, even Stewart grudgingly giving her credit for tackling the washing. All their clothes were in a terrible state, soaked in sweat as well as dirt, so the pause at Shupunga was a good opportunity to get them clean. Mary’s mother had never approved of what she termed ‘lowering standards’ by soaking clothes in the river and then spreading them to dry, but Mary herself had long ago given up on such high principles. She set about the washing with the assistance of several African helpers. At least she had soap, a commodity she had often been without on the treks she had made. It took a long time to complete the laundry, but between batches she walked with her husband round the grounds of the house, sometimes with Stewart, too, who would i
dentify teak trees, and native ginger, and point out arrowroot growing and wild grapes.
The nights were uncomfortable, and disturbed by the chorus of hyenas and jackals all around, and, in Mary’s case, by continuing nightmares about her children. These were not as frequent or as terrifying as they had been on the voyage out, but they were upsetting and not all her husband’s reassurances could entirely banish them. They depressed her, and in the grip of this depression she lost hope that she and her husband would ever be reunited with the children. Always she’d sustained herself during the worst of times (and she’d had plenty of those) by looking forward to having a home such as she had had at Kolobeng, but now she saw that it would never happen. She had given everything up to be with her husband. He tried to reassure her that one day soon they would have a new home and could send for the children, but she was not disposed to believe him. She didn’t believe other things either. He was shocked to hear doubts about her religious faith, which she had first confessed in letters to him, now voiced again more vehemently. This, to him, was worse than any other trial – his whole life and all he had asked of her would be worthless if his wife cast doubts on their beliefs. Her mother had once commented that Mary was never ‘especially devout’ but this was different. It was heresy and it horrified him. Patiently, he read the Bible with her, and prayed, late into the night, that she was once more on the path of righteousness with him. In the mornings he was often exhausted from the effort of guiding his troubled wife back to the path.
Curiously, this interlude refreshed them both. But it ended abruptly on 14 March with the return of the Mackenzie party. Their plan to join Bishop Mackenzie was never fulfilled – both the bishop and Mr Burrup had died of fever without ever reaching the Shire Highlands. The two women were brought back to Shupunga in a state of terrible grief and half-dead themselves after what they had endured on the journey upriver in an open boat. Livingstone was more furious than sympathetic, seeing the deaths only in terms of what it would mean for his own reputation (he’d be blamed for encouraging the Universities Mission and promising that the Shire Highlands were safe and healthy), and he expressed himself in some unfortunate words. Mary, though all compassion herself, did nothing to make him rephrase or retract them. She busied herself comforting and looking after the two prostrate women and impressed the crew of the Pioneer by ‘proving to be a solid, strengthening, affectionate body upon whom Mrs B. could lean for comfort’. Officers who found poor Mrs Burrup weeping, ‘hurried below to fetch Mrs L.’ who ‘took her head on her bosom and comforted her like a child’.1 It was what Mary was good at, and what she hoped some other woman would do for her own children.
After this disaster, Livingstone’s decision was made easier. The grieving women would have to be escorted to the Cape, and so he and Mary would take them as far as the mouth of the Zambesi. Once there, he could collect more supplies and spend the next few fever-ridden months with Mary on the island of Johanna, off the eastern coast. By the time they returned to the Zambesi, the river would be high again and another effort could be made to get past the Murchison Cataracts. So the Pioneer set off, back down the river, everyone subdued and anxious to get both Miss Mackenzie and Mrs Burrup on a ship to the Cape before they, too, expired. When they reached the mouth of the Zambesi, however, there was no ship. They had to wait for the arrival of the Gorgon; not even Livingstone could leave the suffering women until they had been put into good hands. Meanwhile his long-term plans changed again. As soon as Miss Mackenzie and Mrs Burrup had been transferred from the Pioneer – ‘two dark objects … borne on the crossed arms of two bluejackets … not a word comes from them … they are the ladies, not dead, but next to it … poor Mrs Burrup covered with boils and ulcers’ – the boat set off again, back up the Zambesi, with him and Mary on board.
It was 14 April before they reached Shupunga, which meant that they had been almost a month in the worst area for fever. Stewart, who had not accompanied them, had himself had malaria badly while they were away but was recovered by the time of their return. He was glad to see them. The nights had been long on his own and as the candles had run out he couldn’t read. The heat was worse then ever and he was frequently wakened by ‘impudent rats’ and dozens of bats. All he had to eat was dry porridge oats and tea without sugar. The Livingstones brought new supplies, which was a relief, but they also brought the familiar tension. The old quartermaster of the Pioneer got drunk and had a fight with the engineer; and then there was the continuing uncertainty as to what exactly Livingstone intended to do. Would he still try to reach the cataracts and go on beyond them?
Meanwhile, Mary was not well. Dr Kirk, keeping his usual unfriendly eye on her, remarked that in spite of the meagre rations, she was ‘getting very stout’. He seemed to hint that she might be pregnant again. He described her as having ‘frequent febrile attacks consisting of flush and sweats lasting but for a few hours’. Were these malarial, or perhaps even menopausal, symptoms? She was now in her forties and an early menopause was possible. Kirk, however, had other theories. He was convinced her health had been, as he put it, ‘undermined’ by her ‘indiscretions’, both physical (drinking too much) and emotional (hearing the gossip about herself and Stewart). In short, he blamed her for her own condition. Luckily, her husband did not. He recognised fever when he saw it, but he knew there were different strains of malaria and not all of them responsive to the remedies available. Anxiously, he dosed Mary with massive amounts of quinine, but by 24 April she was no better and confined to the tent which they had pitched on the river-bank. Stewart had stopped entering in his journal that ‘Mrs L. said she was ill’ and even Kirk betrayed some genuine anxiety.
Mary lay in the stifling tent making no protest. She trusted her husband to look after her when she was ill, as he always had done, and obediently took whatever he gave her. Unfortunately, she vomited repeatedly and could not keep down medicine or anything else. Her complexion started to turn yellow and her hair was matted from the violent sweating of the fever. Livingstone tried to reduce the fever, but without success. On 26 April, at last Mary was moved out of the wretched tent into Shupunga House itself where a proper bed was prepared for her. Kirk and Stewart vacated their quarters to give her some privacy. Helping to carry her into the house, Stewart noted, ‘I was struck by the altered expression of her face, but distrusted it as indicating anything serious.’ Even now, there was the same prejudice against Mary, with the same uncharitable insinuation that she must be pretending and could not really be so ill.
But her husband was in no doubt that she was. He consulted with Kirk, desperate for any advice. Together the two of them applied poultices all over Mary – on her calves, on her stomach, on her neck – but she sank into a coma. Livingstone was frantic, but even in the middle of his intense distress what concerned him more than anything was that Mary might die without reaffirming her faith. He hoped that in the last few weeks he had brought her back to confidence in her religion, but he could not be sure. As she lay there, inert in the suffocating heat, her poor body ravaged by fever, by the application of poultices and by the final indignity of an enema, her husband bent over her and said, ‘My dearie, my dearie, you are going to leave me. Are you resting on Jesus?’ There is something grotesque about the scene, in his asking such a question of a woman who was barely breathing and who had not spoken for the last twenty-four hours, but to him it was a matter of damnation or salvation. He did not get an answer, but convinced himself that a slight upward movement of her eyes, the merest flicker, was an indication that she was indeed ‘resting on Jesus’.
At seven o’clock on the evening of 27 April, an hour after dark, Mary died. Her husband was inconsolable. Nobody had ever seen him weep before but now he wept uncontrollably, first embarrassing and then frightening Kirk and Stewart. Neither of them in their journals expressed one word of sympathy for him or any regret over the death of his wife. Their entries are cold and clinical, Stewart observing how Mary’s ‘face after death [was] suffused with
bile and even more yellow than in jaundice’ and Kirk that her ‘skin [was] tinged with deep yellow’. Their help was of a practical variety only. It was important, in that climate, to bury Mary as quickly as possible and they set themselves to see to it. The weather was ‘dull, heavy, leaden’ wrote Stewart, with black cloud massing to the east and a thick mist creeping ominously over the flatlands to the north. A grave was dug, very deep because of the fear that wild animals would dig the body up, and a rough coffin hammered together (though the ship’s carpenter himself had fever and the job had to be done by Rae, the man who had spread the gossip about her). The grave was at the foot of the giant baobab tree, which alone gave some grandeur to the otherwise pathetic scene. All the way through the simple, hurried ceremony, which Stewart conducted, the geese screamed around the house, a final eerie salute to Mary. Four sailors mounted guard round the grave while a stone cairn was built over it. And now, for the first time in his life, Livingstone said he was willing to die himself. Without his wife, there was for the moment no joy in living.
Good Wives Page 10
