Chapter 35

THE LURE OF THE JUNGLE

ON September 20, 1771, a boy, destined to high renown, was born among the Scottish lowlands. Within walking distance, another boy, also marked for fame, was sprawling in his cradle. For that day was also the birthday of Mungo Park, the distinguished African explorer; his small neighbour, a few days older, is known to all the world as Sir Walter Scott.

As we peruse their biographies, we find them frequently in each other’s company until that misty Autumn afternoon in 1805, about the time of the Battle of Trafalgar, when we see them riding through the heather to a spot at which they take farewell of each other for ever. For Park is setting out on his second expedition, the expedition from which he will never return.

Park’s career is like a sandwich. There are the two expeditions to the Niger, with the eight years of medical practice at Peebles-the years of his closest intimacy with Sir Walter in between. He stands in our annals as a pioneer of pioneers. He inaugurated a new era.

Europe was horrified by the loathsome reports concerning the African slave trade. Everybody felt that they should be investigated. Park was sent out. His colourful records of the immense spaciousness of the weird continent, together with his vivid descriptions of its gigantic fauna and is luxurious flora, captivated the imagination of the world. It kindled the enthusiasm, and directed the consecration of men ‘like Livingstone. The startled nations rubbed their eyes and awoke to greet the new day, and the doors of the great closed land swung open to an imposing succession of pathfinders.

He plunged into Africa and the world forgot. Interest quickly evaporated. After daring a thousand deaths, he arrived back in London on Christmas Day, 1797. Nobody was at the station to welcome him.

It was a bitterly cold winter’s morning. He had nowhere to go; people were too busy with the day’s frolics and festivities to notice him. He sat shivering for a while in the gardens of the British Museum, when, strangely enough, his brother-in-law, James Dickson, ‘unexpectedly coming to the gardens on some trifling business, was deeply moved to see there his long-lost friend, whom he had confidently numbered among the dead’. Thus ended one of the most momentous and fruitful expeditions of all time.

In Scotland once more, Park tried hard to settle down to a medical practice, but the lure of the jungle was too much for him. Africa was in his blood. In his walks and talks with Scott he could discuss no other theme. ‘I tramp these hills with you in the daytime,’ he once said to Sir Walter, ‘but, as soon as I close my eyes at night, I am in Africa again.’

It seemed clear that his bones were never likely to rest quietly in any soil but Africa’s.

Nothing about Park so impressed Scott as his amazing modesty. The Travels had been published in 1799; but, very often, in a burst of confidence, Park would narrate some adventure far more exciting than anything in his book. ‘But, my dear fellow,’ Scott would protest, ‘why didn’t you include that story in your manuscript?’ But Park would only mutter something about ‘nobody would have believed it’ or ‘he didn’t care to brag’.

As the months passed, the mystery of the Niger became more maddening. What became of it? Did it join the Congo or empty itself into the sea? He would, he used to say, rather be drowned in the Niger than fail to solve that problem.

And so, whilst the world was fevered with Nelson and Trafalgar, he set off to Africa again. Arrived at the spot among the heather on which they had agreed to part, Scott and Park silently clasped hands. Park struck the spurs into his horse; Scott watched him till he was out of sight and then, sadly, returned to Ashestiel. Seven years later, the country heard with sorrow that Park had perished in the waters of his Niger.

A noble monument at Stirling commemorates one of the knightliest figures in the annals of exploration. Tall, handsome and of charming manners, Park’s audacious spirit, his indefatigable vigilance, his tireless activity, his calm fortitude, and his robust Christian faith have, as one of his biographers has said, been seldom equalled and never surpassed.

By Dr. F. W. Boreham