Into Africa Read online

  The author of this book is solely responsible for the accuracy of all facts and statements contained in the book. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used in an entirely fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2020 by Level 4 Press, Inc.

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form.

  This book is printed on acid-free paper.

  Published by:

  Level 4 Press, Inc.

  13518 Jamul Drive

  Jamul, CA 91935

  www.level4press.com

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2019943922

  ISBN: 978-1-933769-94-3

  Printed in the USA

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  The NAZI GOLD TRAIN

  JIM LORD

  THE GREEN CATHEDRAL

  THE AMBER ROOM

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  1

  —

  Raining. Heavy downpour. Not unusual. It was expected in the village of Ujiji in January, when the air stayed wet with constant showers, and drizzle poured over the Ukaranga ridges that fed the streams running into its Liuche Valley; Ujiji, in the heart of East Africa on the shores of Lake Tanganyika, the oldest, deepest, and largest freshwater lake in Africa, famed for its huge variety of fish—over three hundred species—and its stunning sunsets; Ujiji, a foremost Arab slave station along the trading route that stretched from the island of Zanzibar to Bagamoyo on the Indian Ocean and from there to Tabora two hundred miles west; Ujiji, a place of huge importance during the time of caravans that crisscrossed Tanganyika daily, carrying guns, ivory, and human cargo to be sold in Africa and the distant lands of Arabia, Europe, and the Americas.

  Dr. David Livingstone, a middle-aged white man, turned and tossed on his sleeping platform in the middle of the night. Beads of perspiration had gathered on his gaunt face and long, gray beard. At times, raindrops dripped down from the leaking thatched roof of his hut and mingled with his sweat. He was dressed in a long, white nightgown, and he wore brown canvas pants day and night. The leaking rain aside, Livingstone was determined to get up. He turned on his back and pushed himself up, but he cried out in pain as he fell back down.

  He had been in Ujiji since August 1871, after he witnessed the massacre of nearly four hundred men, women, and children by slave traders in the village of Nyangwe on the western side of the lake. Before that, these same traders had saved his life, when he was lost and starving, his own caravan members having deserted him and stolen his medicine chest. The Arabs knew he hated slavery, but, it seemed, he had turned a blind eye to their activities in order to complete his endless quest to find the true source of the Nile River.

  “How long will you be gone?” Janet had asked as she walked beside him through the gardens at Newstead Abbey, the former home of Lord Byron. David had been staying there during his last visit home in 1864, the guest of a big game hunter he had met in Bechuanaland.

  “Two years, Janet, no more.”

  “Your children won’t like it. Have you told them yet?”

  “No, I’ve got time.”

  “And what if you stay more than that? What if you get lost again?

  “I know the land. I know the people. I know where I’m going.” He put his arm around his younger sister’s shoulder. His breathing was heavy. His steps were long and laborious. “Two years. That’s all I need.”

  “And where are you going?”

  “Africa in its interior is full of fast-moving rivers and huge lakes. If I can find a connection between them, I will have solved what the great men of antiquity failed to do. From Homer to Herodotus, all of them.”

  He had first come to Africa in 1841 as a missionary but found greater success as an explorer and had undertaken three other major trips to the region. He was the first British man to cross Africa on foot from the east coast to the west and back again, and he had discovered the waterfall known as the “Smoke That Thunders,” and renamed it Victoria Falls.

  “Look, Susi,” he’d said that day, “the whole mass of the Zambezi waters rush into a fissure, right across the entire riverbed.”

  “Yes, bwana. Good to look at. Very beautiful.” Susi, Livingstone’s assistant, pointed to the churning white froth at the bottom of the waterfall.

  “You’re right. It is beautiful to look at, but not as beautiful as the Zambezi itself. We must continue downriver and reach Tete before I have another fever attack. I want to bypass the Batoka tribe. I don’t want to get sick in their territory. Come, let’s take some measurements and get back to camp and get ready to go.”

  He had mapped and charted the only part of the world’s major landmass that was still unknown by Europeans and had contributed to the white man’s knowledge of Africa, especially its vast lakes and rivers.

  Upon his brief return to Great Britain in 1856, he was often mobbed in the streets of London by fans; he had gained fame from a best-selling book that detailed his travels. He had done this all in the name of God, but somewhere along his path, he became obsessed with Africa itself, with exploring its vast interior. He had other motives, to be sure, but all of these paled in comparison to his absolute desire to rid the continent of slave trading in the wake of the massacre at Nyangwe.

  Now, he was unable to walk and mentally chained to his room after years of wandering and exploring in complete freedom. Even before the Nyangwe massacre, he had suffered from dysentery, ulcers, and malnutrition, causing some of his teeth to loosen and fall out. In Great Britain it was reported and widely believed that he was dead. No white man had seen him since 1866. In truth, he was dying, and he knew it. The pain in his abdomen and intestines was sometimes so bad that he fell unconscious. It was only a matter of time before he’d never wake up again.

  In this depth of misery and despair, he was surrounded by a group of African children he had adopted as well as his mixed-race daughter, Baraka, who was always with him and attended to his daily needs, such as providing him medicine, feeding him, and giving him massages between his bouts of physical stress; a ten-year-old boy, Kalulu, ran his errands, brought his food, and relayed his messages to local officials and nearby villages. There was also Susi, a man of about forty, Livingstone’s most trusted servant, who had been with him through his many travels. Susi saw to it that he was bathed and cleansed every day. He also cooked Livingstone’s meals and emptied his bedpan. Lately, as Livingstone’s health grew steadily worse, other Ujiji villagers, Africans and Arabs, had joined these others in a kind of vigil, paying their last respects to a great man who soon would be no more.

  Livingstone leaned forward and struggled to get back up. He pushe
d the mosquito net that surrounded him away and looked across the room. Nearby stood his table on which he kept his journal, pen, and paper.

  “Help me please, Baraka.”

  “What you want?”

  “I need to get to the table. I have something important to do.”

  Assisted by Baraka, who held on to his waist, he put his right arm around her neck and shoulders and dragged himself to a chair next to the table and fell into it.

  “I feel so tired.”

  With his hands shaking from the constant, surging waves of physical torment, he took from the table an envelope and wrote out the name and address of his sister Janet, in Scotland. Then, he handed the pen to Baraka and took from his neck a crucifix on a silver chain and put it into the envelope, sealed it, and placed it into a waterproof leather pouch.

  “Kalulu. Where’s Kalulu?” He looked at the group of African children behind him staring at his every move. A youth stepped forward, thin and wiry.

  Kalulu took the pouch and tied it to a leather belt around his waist. Livingstone nodded.

  “Chuka gura. Take it, go.” The boy took off and disappeared into the forest.

  2

  —

  “Let us not forget, we are the elect, the chosen few.”

  Mr. James Ewing stood upright in his pulpit, as he had done every Sunday since he had taken over as preacher of the Hamilton Congregational Church of Scotland. He was a tall man, slightly balding. Like many men of his era, he wore a beard, although it was graying, neatly trimmed, and without a mustache. From a distance, he looked like the old-time Protestant preachers of the past, filled with fire and brimstone, lashing out with the full force of his righteousness, at sin and Satan. In truth, Reverend Ewing had a sense of humor and knew how to add the personal touch when speaking to his congregation, who sat before him, twenty-five loyal souls, families from the surrounding villages and towns, rapt in their attention as his sermon reached its peak. He stepped from behind the pulpit and approached his flock. As he came closer, he threw out the palms of his hands, as if he were trying to embrace them.

  “We have been selected by the Almighty Himself.”

  His crescendo rose even further, rising but not yet to its full volume, not yet to the final climax that would cause individual spirits to explode and see the light. And then, he paused and looked each and every one of his congregation members in the eyes.

  In the second row of the pews, sitting by the window near the bare white walls, Janet Livingstone watched and listened with everyone else. She was slightly younger than Reverend Ewing, in her mid-forties, her reddish-brown hair tied into a tight bun, her arms and legs covered by a long woolen dress. She had walked that morning from the town of Blantyre, Scotland, nearly two miles away, as she had done every Sunday for the past forty years. When she was a girl, she traveled that distance with her family: her mother, Mary Hunter, her father, Neil the younger, and her brothers and sister—David, Charles, and Agnes.

  “Now, lads, make religion the everyday business of your life,” Neil Livingstone said one such day after the family had been walking together for about a mile, he and Mary in the lead, followed by David, Charles, Agnes, and Janet. They were dressed in their Sunday finest.

  Neil continued. “For if you don’t, temptation will get the best of you.”

  “Aye, and make the best of unpleasant situations,” Mary added.

  Janet, a girl of eleven, didn’t understand why they had to walk to their congregation every Sunday. “Is that why we walk to Hamilton? To make the best of it?”

  Neil, who set a sturdy pace for everyone, making it difficult for Janet to keep up, turned to her as he moved. “We walk because we don’t own a carriage.”

  “But why do we refuse rides when offered?” asked Janet.

  “Because their carriages are small and can only hold one or two of us. We stay together,” Mary chimed.

  “You must build your strength of body and character, self-reliance and perseverance, so you will be ready to receive the Holy Spirit when it comes,” said Neil.

  “Remember the time we walked to the outdoor service at the parish in Shotts?” Charles, who had been quiet so far, sought to provide an illustration of his father’s point. “And it started to snow.”

  Janet laughed. She also remembered. “The snow came up to our ankles.”

  Suddenly, David, who was always reticent and never talked, blurted out, “Is that what you mean by perseverance?”

  “Yes, David. That’s exactly what I mean. The snow came up to my ankles but I didn’t feel any cold that day. The good Lord gave me all the warmth I needed,” said Neil.

  “But, Father,” David continued, “why didn’t I feel the warmth? I live by His example and for He who died on the cross, and yet I do not feel His warmth in my heart. I do not feel His spirit.”

  The family walked on in silence until Mary spoke again. “You’re young, David. You haven’t lived long enough.”

  “Someday the spirit will claim you,” Neil rejoined, “and when it does, it will strike you like thunder and shake your soul. Meanwhile you must prepare yourself.”

  The Livingstones were famous for their independence and self-reliance. They never asked for help from anyone and made it a point to act in accordance with their beliefs and nothing else. The Livingstones were so independent that they brought their lunch with them to the chapel as well as coffee, tea, and sugar so that the only thing they asked for from the congregation was hot water.

  Janet continued to make the trek every Sunday after her father and mother had long since passed away, and after her brother Charles had moved to the United States.

  “Let us not forget our duty to uplift the downtrodden, heathens, and slaves, and the dispossessed. We were put on earth to help those who cannot help themselves. Even though they have been cast out, we must save them. So let us not forget the example of Dr. David Livingstone”—the minister stopped to look at Janet directly—“who has devoted his entire life to saving the savages of Africa.”

  When his crescendo had been reached, Janet wanted to stand up and applaud but dared not to, since any outward display of emotion would be frowned upon by her fellow members. Once Reverend Ewing saw that he had the full attention of his worshippers, once he knew that their spiritual emotions had been truly moved, it was time for him to finish.

  “Let us pray.”

  After the sermon, Janet wanted to talk with Reverend Ewing, so she made her way over to him. She wanted to thank him for his reference to her brother, even though in most of his sermons for the past two years he had made similar references, usually near the end of his sermons. Indeed the presence of Dr. David Livingstone remained vivid to everyone. His name was often invoked, or he was talked about. Yet Janet never grew tired of this habitual adulation and respect, never grew tired of hearing his achievements cited. As she walked toward the minister, she stopped and said hello to various people she knew.

  “Hello, Mrs. Scott. It’s good to see you.”

  “And you, too, Miss Livingstone. You’re looking well.”

  “Hello, Janet,” another woman called to her.

  “Martha Giles. How is the good Lord treating you?”

  “The same. His light is always shining. By the way, I’ll be going back to Blantyre after the service. Would you want a ride?”

  “That’s kind of you to offer, but no thank you. It’s a nice day. I’ll walk.”

  “I knew you would. Just thought I’d ask. I don’t see how you do it. Two miles each way. You must be strong as an ox.”

  “The Lord gives me my strength, Mrs. Giles.”

  These conversations were brief in relation to her insistence to talk to Reverend Ewing. Soon she reached him.

  “Reverend Ewing. Reverend Ewing. I need to talk to you.”

  He was talking to someone else, so she waited. Other women, an
d a few men, also wanted to talk to him, and as they approached him, they bypassed Janet until a small crowd had gathered around him, shutting her out. A sudden flash of anxiety crossed her face, a sudden realization of her own helplessness. She really wanted to talk, needed to talk, but realized she couldn’t, so she turned around and walked out.

  The following morning, still fired up, her spirits lifted by Reverend Ewing’s sermon the day before, she walked along Main Street in downtown Blantyre. Her gait was steady and straightforward, almost like marching, as if she knew exactly where she wanted to go. The early morning sun had just come up in full view, casting its rays on two-storied buildings made of brick or stone, well-made structures to keep out the winter wind and snow. Most of the buildings had tall chimneys that rose toward the sky, and in the distance, the pinnacle of a Presbyterian church steeple stood proud over the town. On the street, horse-drawn carriages rambled by. A few children ran and played.

  When Janet slowed to cross the intersection at Main and Victoria Street, just before she looked both ways to see if she could pass, a stray dog sidled up to her. All it wanted was some attention or affection and it bowed its head as if it were used to being petted by strangers, but Janet gave it a wide berth and sidestepped it, muttering inside her mind that the dog looked disgusting, a feeling she often felt when she came around animals, particularly dogs. She crossed the intersection and kept going forward, the sound of her heels pounding the concrete path. She pushed herself ahead until she reached a store with a large sign above: BOSWELL’S BOOKS BOUGHT AND SOLD.

  As she entered the shop, she was greeted with hundreds of books that lined the shelves. All kinds of books, from famous novels by Thackeray, Austen, Fielding, and Defoe to poetry volumes by Shakespeare, Byron, and Shelley. There were scientific studies on geology, botany, and the new science of chemistry, and almanacs, both used and new. Boswell’s was also well supplied in travelogues and boasted of its collection of texts by British-African explorers: Richard Burton’s Lake Regions of Central Equatorial Africa and John Hanning Speke’s The Journal of the Discovery of the Source of the Nile, and it had Mungo Park’s famous Travels in the Interior of Africa. Park was the forerunner of them all, the first Westerner to have traveled the Niger River in central Africa and a major influence on David’s career. In former years, Janet had read all these books along with her brother.