  Camp was pitched in Undussuma to give the sick more careful attention and the exhausted ones time to recuperate. A severe epidemic of smallpox broke out there. Emin also had much to endure. His left eye was at last entirely blinded and an injury to his knee, to which at first he paid no attention, became inflamed, owing to the great dampness (it was the rainy season) and caused him much pain. Besides this he suffered from constant insomnia so that he grew very weak and could hardly move about. He was confined to his tent day and night, the prey of gnawing solicitude and racking his brain to find some reason for rescuing something where there was nothing to rescue. One morning the Pasha invited Stuhlmann for an interview. He stated to him that a longer stay in that place would involve the death of all by smallpox and that isolation was impossible. It was his duty to remove the well ones at once. Stuhlmann must start homewards with them while he would follow after with the sick when they recovered. Stuhlmann refused to leave the Pasha, who was sick himself and in need of help, but Emin threw all his authority into the scales. As his superior he must be obeyed and he gave Stuhlmann a written order by which he could justify himself before the world and to his own conscience. So they divided men, weapons, munition, and supplies. Emin kept thirty-eight people, a part of them women and children, while Stuhlmann led one hundred and thirty-three to the coast and as a matter of fact saved them. On the tenth of December, in the early morning, Stuhlmann departed with a sad heart. “I hope,” said Emin, “to see you again in a month. If I am overcome by force and cannot come, remember me to my child.” Only a handshake, a last wave of the hand, and they parted, never to meet again. After Stuhlmann’s departure Emin’s health improved somewhat, but many of the sick died. The natives had fled because of the pest and thus supplies could not be procured and there was great suffering from hunger. Dissatisfaction, drunkenness, and disorder prevailed and Emin had to resort to the lash. The Soudanese were again the worst offenders. In all his troubles Emin always found consolation in his scientific observations, which he entered daily in his diary, notwithstanding his impaired sight. As the sick were now recovering Emin began planning to resume the journey and he succeeded in inducing Ismaili, an Arab, to accompany him to the Congo and procure the necessary porters. On the ninth of March, 1892, Emin left the camp, the scene of so many sorrows, still trusting in his people, though he had been expressly warned of their evil designs. But no choice was left him. Alone, he could reach neither the east nor the west coast. Now at the mercy of a hostile Arab, he was traversing that great region which had been visited only by slave hunters, and the thought of his own weakness was a great pain to him. How many years he had unweariedly fought these cruel men-stealers, inspired at that time by the hope that Europe at last would put an end to the infamous business. Now he looked out upon his province, which under his administration had been a scene of peaceful industry and of continually increasing prosperity, and heard only the shrieks of victims in the silence of the night. The little that we know of Emin’s fate is from his diary, which is brought down to the twenty-second of October, upon which date he met his fate, as the result of revenge for the four prisoners murdered by the Warambas, a crime of which he was believed to be guilty. Emin suspected all. It looks as if he did not try to escape from his fate. We read in his diary that the Arab chief, Kinene, met him and took him to his house at Kasango. “He wants to make sure of me,” writes Emin. He clearly saw through his designs. On the following morning Emin sat upon the beautiful veranda of his false host’s house. Upon the table before him were spread out birds and plants, the spoils of the last few days, which he had investigated and whose characteristics he had noted down. Before him was a letter from the powerful Kibonge, whose possessions were on the Congo, inviting him in a friendly manner to visit him and promising him protection. Emin was in a cheerful mood. Once more it seemed that the cup passed from him. On the morrow he would leave, go to the Congo and thence safely to the coast. Kinene entered and said: “Pasha, as you are going away in the morning, let your people go to the plantations and provide themselves with manioc and bananas. I will give them to you for the many fine things you have brought to me.” Emin looked up from his book and thanked him and then sent for his people. Kinene said: “Let your people leave their guns here on the veranda, for the women who work on the plantations would be terrified if they saw men coming with guns.” The men, fifty in number, did as he suggested and betook themselves to the plantations a mile away. When they were gone, Kinene spoke in a friendly way to Emin and regretted his speedy departure. Ismaili and Mamba, a slave, stood behind Emin’s chair and at a sign from the chief seized him by the arms. Emin turned angrily and asked them what they meant. Then said Kinene: “Pasha, you must die.” “What do you mean?” said Emin. “Is this a sorry joke? How dare you restrain me? What do you mean by saying I must die? Who are you, Kinene, that you should dare to kill me?” Kinene answered: “It is the will of Kibonge. I must obey him.” Three persons stepped forward and held Emin securely as he tried to free himself. When he saw that his efforts were useless, he said: “This is a mistake. Here is a letter from Kibonge which promises me safe conduct.” Kinene replied: “Pasha, if you can read Arabic, read this letter.” And Emin read the second letter of the false Kibonge, which ordered him to be killed. He gave a deep sigh, then frowned and said: “Well, you will kill me, but do not think that I am the only white man in this country. Many will come to avenge my death and believe me, in two years there will not be a single Arab left in this region to tell the story of the destruction of his people.” Kinene remained unmoved and when Emin saw there was no hope of escape he protested no longer and Ismaili, his treacherous guide, severed the head of the defenseless one from his body. Two years elapsed before definite news of Emin’s fate was received, and as nothing was heard of him all that time, it was generally believed that he had been killed by Arabs, and that the truth had been concealed. At last Baron Dhanis, at the head of a Belgian expedition, came to the vicinity of Kinene’s possessions. There by chance Emin’s trunk and diary were found in a cabin, and the discovery led to the arrest of Ismaili and three others, who had participated in the murder, and their confession. The murderers were condemned to be hanged. A year later the treacherous Kibonge was made to pay for his infamy, for he was taken prisoner by a European expedition and put to death. Thus Emin, the quiet, genial man, who never did an injury to anyone, but conferred almost endless benefactions, died as he had lived—alone. The serious, strenuous work of his life brought him little gratitude. He lived to see the collapse of his great creation—the Equatorial Provinces. But the one thing which was his consolation in all his hard days and which was occupying him at the very hour of his death was his devotion to science, which did not die with him, but has been and always will be of great value to the world. The museums of Europe tell of the activity of this collector, and scholars who have studied his diaries are amazed at the richness of their contents. He will never die in the memory of his own people or of the civilized world; his name is indelibly engraved upon the tablets of history. |
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