The curse of the slave trade lay like a blight on Central Africa. When, after the suppression of piracy in the Mediterranean, the supply of white slaves came to an end, the Mohammedan traders turned to the more inaccessible parts of Africa. Here the slave trade became a more sinister business, and attained more tremendous proportions than ever. Bands of Arabs, armed to the teeth, would suddenly descend on the African villages, massacre the old and infirm, capture strong men, youths, women and children, chain them together and drive them off to one of the slave markets which they had established all over the country. The pace, which was swift, was maintained by a liberal use of the whip. Those who could not keep up were simply knocked on the head. If mothers complained, their babies were killed that they might have less to carry. The neck of each captive was thrust through a long forked stick, the two prongs of which were joined by an iron bar beneath the chin, making it possible to wring the neck of anyone who might try to escape.

The tracks from Central Africa to the different slave markets were easy to follow, for they were sown with human bones.

On his first journey through Africa, the great explorer Stanley counted in a district as large as Ireland a million inhabitants. On his return some years later, the same country, which had been cultivated and had attained a certain degree of prosperity, was a desert. Five thousand alone of its inhabitants had escaped. Those of the native chiefs who had adopted Mohammedanism eagerly caught at this easy way of amassing wealth. If the royal treasury happened to be empty, a raid on a neighbouring village provided the wherewithal to fill it. There were districts in which three men could not be sent on a message, lest two should combine and sell the third before they came back. In 1872, it was calculated that the annual number of slaves sold amounted to two hundred thousand. "Wherever they go in Africa," said an African explorer, "the followers of Islam are the destroyers of peace, the breakers up of the patriarchal life, the dissolvers of the family tie."

The name of Cardinal Lavigerie will be always remembered as the leader of the great crusade against what has been aptly called the "heart-disease of Africa," but when the first band of missionaries set out in 1871 the crusade was a thing of the future. It was obvious that under such conditions the principles of the Gospel could make no headway, but on the high lands to the north-west of Lake Nyanza things seemed more promising. This country, known as Uganda, inhabited by a strong, warlike, intelligent race, was as yet untouched by the degradation of the slave trade, and when the great explorer, Stanley, declared that its king, Mtesa, would welcome missionaries, both Catholics and Protestants were ready to seize the opportunity.

Below: a photograph of the Lavigerie crest, taken by Mike Mearns when visiting the Basilica in Carthage recently (April 2003)


A mandate from Pope Leo XIII called upon Cardinal—then Archbishop—Lavigerie to found a Catholic mission in the district, and in the same year, 1878, a band of ten White Fathers set out for Zanzibar, the starting point of all travellers to the interior. Four of these, under the leadership of Father Pascal, were destined for Tanganyika; Father Lourdel and three others —under Father Livinhac, for Lake Unyanyembe.

On May both they reached Zanzibar "oriental in its appearance, Mohammedan in its religion, Arabian in its morals," where they were to make up their caravan. Though every native African village is connected with some other village by a beaten track, it is impossible to penetrate to the interior without native aid. Native chiefs and kinglets must be propitiated by presents of cloth, beads, wire, and such things, food must be paid for in the same coin, and as the journey may last for many months, an army of porters must be hired to carry the stock in trade. Then an army of guards must be hired to protect the porters—equally unprepossessing and equally dishonest. Both categories offered themselves for hire with a readiness behind which lay the determination to run away at the first opportunity, with as much of the stock as they could purloin. The managing of this motley group, during a long period, beset with many difficulties, was likely to prove no easy matter, further complicated by the fact that the language spoken by both porters and guards was barely intelligible to the missionaries.

On the Feast of the Holy Trinity, after having said Mass for the success of their journey, the party set out. Progress was slow. The baggage donkeys showed a marvellous facility for getting rid of their loads, and further distinguished themselves by sticking fast in a swamp of black mud. The natives slung ropes round their necks and hauled them out, but one would have gone under altogether had not Father Lourdel plunged in to the rescue, coming out a good deal darker than he went in.

The days were monotonously alike. The caravan was on the march soon after dawn, in single file, for the track was often not more than a foot wide.

Sometimes the way lay through deep forests to the sound of the singing of birds and the chattering of monkeys. Sometimes they skirted fields of maize, sugar-cane, and millet, and passed native villages, consisting of wattled huts, roofed with mud. Sometimes the track took them through unhealthy swamps, where they sank ankle-deep at every step, sometimes through hollows haunted by wild beasts, always under a scorching sun or a drenching downpour. Now and again a porter would refuse to go on, or make off into the thicket with his load. The guards fought with each other perpetually, and when called to order threatened to depart, but were useful when the party was attacked by robbers, as occasionally happened. After the long day's march came the camp at night, with wild beasts howling round it, the guards firing off their guns to frighten them, and the porters quarrelling vociferously. Even if the ants had been less busy it would have been hard to sleep.

Then fever broke out—the terrible malarial fever of tropical Africa. "First cold and pain, then heat and pain, then every kind of pain and every degree of heat, then delirium, then the life and death struggle." The victim "rises a shadow and waits for the next attack, which he knows will not disappoint him." A growing sense of weariness and depression heralds the first attack, which may be struggled against for days, or even weeks, though sooner or later the crash is sure to come. Father Lourdel, the strongest of the party, was one of the first to be attacked, but refused to give in, and even went out with some of the guards and a hammock to fetch Brother Amans, who was no longer able to follow the caravan.

The culmination of troubles came when the travellers reached Ugogo, where the "kongo " or tribute demanded by the kings of the country, threatened to be their ruin. This custom, introduced by the Arab slave traders, of propitiating the chiefs by presents, had developed into a heavy tax, regulated solely by the. caprice of the rulers, and exacted by threats.

The presents offered were as often as not sent back as unsatisfactory, or received with a demand for more, which was reiterated when a fresh supply arrived. The chiefs refused permission to pass through their territories until their demands were satisfied and the missionaries were wholly at their mercy. In this unfriendly country Father Pascal, Superior of the Tanganyika band, died of fever, to the bitter sorrow of his companions. As the natives would have demanded several hundred bales of cloth for permission to bury the dead priest in their district, it was decided to carry him across the frontier into the great forest which lay just beyond it. This was done at dead of night; the last prayers were said, a little cross was erected over the lonely grave, and the Fathers returned with heavy hearts to the camp.

But the porters had let out to the natives the secret that there had been a death among the travellers; and the king, declaring that the missionaries were hiding the dead man's corpse in their tents, came himself to search for it. Finding nothing, he demanded a hundred and sixty yards of cloth, together with several rolls of copper wire, for the privilege of dying in his kingdom. The travellers were glad to leave Ugogo behind them.

Six days later Father Lourdel collapsed, all the more thoroughly on account of his long struggle. Father Livinhac stayed behind with him until porters could be sent out from the camp, with a hammock to bring him in.

There were other misfortunes to reckon with. The porters were deserting by the dozen, and it began to look as if the caravan would melt away, leaving the weary travellers to their fate. But they struggled on, and at last—three months after they had set out from Zanzibar—reached Tabora, the capital of Unyanyembe. Though a black king was the nominal ruler, this whole district was under Arab domination, and Tabora was one of the chief centres of the slave trade.

It was here that the two bands were to part company, dividing into separate caravans, and there was great consternation when a review of what remained to them of their store revealed that there was not nearly enough left to carry them to their journey's end. What was to be done? To trade with the Arabs seemed the only resource, but their prices were exorbitant, and they definitely refused to lower them.

A consultation among the missionaries ended in the determination to see what could be done in the way of trading with Mirambo, a powerful chief who had made himself a kingdom stretching from Unyanembe to Nyanza, in the heart of the Arab country. He was the successful rival of Arab dominion, a brave and intelligent man, who had the name of being favourable to Europeans. It was decided that Father Lourdel, now partly recovered, and Father Deniand, who had replaced Father Pascal as head of the Tanganyika band, should set out together with three guides, which were with difficulty obtained from the Arabs. At the end of the first day Father Lourdel succumbed to another attack of fever, and was unable to go any further. A kindly disposed chief, in a neighbouring village offered a hut for the sick man, who urged his companion to go on to Mirambo’s kraal and pick him up on the way back. But Mirambo was away on a fighting expedition, and nothing could be done. The venture, however, was not altogether a failure, for the Arabs, hearing of the attempt, and fearful of losing their customers, lowered their prices.

The Nyanza party was the first to set out on the second stage of the journey, after farewells which all knew would be the last in this world. Fever, dysentery, and the anxieties of the past three months had left their mark on all. Father Lourdel was still weak, Father Girault almost blind, but indomitable courage made up for what was wanting in physical strength, and their hearts were full of hope. The country they were now entering differed from that already traversed by reason of its extraordinary fertility. First came plains dotted with villages and cultivated fields, populated by a simple peaceful folk, then thick forests, inhabited by fierce, warlike tribes, continually at war. Human bones and burnt villages marked the sites of hostile raids, and more than once the safety of the little party was seriously threatened . Then came a fresh outbreak of fever, and Father Lourdel who suffered the most, had to be carried a good part of the way in a hammock. At last the welcome waters of Lake Nyanza shone on the eyes of the travellers, and it looked as if the worst part of the journey was at an end.