Stanley was now filled with keen regrets for the manner in which he had punished the cook, and mentally he resolved that no matter what a member of his caravan should do in the future he would never drive him out of camp to perish by assassins. Still he would not yet believe that the man was murdered. But he was furious at the treatment of his soldiers by the black Amazon of Limbamwanni, and the tribute she exacted, especially at the seizure of the guns, and if he had been near the place would have made reprisals. But he had already lost four days, and so, next morning, although the rain was coming down in torrents, he broke camp and set forth. Shaw was still sick, and so the whole duty of driving the floundering caravan devolved upon himself. As fast as one was flogged out of the mire in which he had stuck, another would fall in. It took two hours to cross the miry plain, though it was but a mile and a half wide. He was congratulating himself on having at last got over it, when he was confronted by a ditch which the heavy rains had converted into a stream breast deep. The donkeys had all to be unloaded, and led through the torrent, and loaded again on the farther side. They had hardly got under way when they came upon another stream, so deep that it could not be forded, over which they had to swim, and float across their baggage. They then floundered on until they came to a bend of the river, where they pitched their camp, having made but six miles the whole day. This River Makata is only about forty feet in width in the dry season, but at this time it was a wide, turbid stream. Its shores, with its matted grass, decayed vegetable matter and reeking mists, seemed the very home of the ague and fever. It took five hours to cross it the next morning. The rain then came down in such torrents that traveling became impossible, and the camp was pitched. Luckily this proved the last day of the rainy season. It was now the 1st of May, and the expedition was in a pitiable plight. Shaw was still sick, and one man was down with the small-pox. Bombay, too, was sick, and others complaining. Doctoring the sick as well as he knew how, and laying the whip lustily on the backs of those who were shamming, Stanley at length got his caravan in motion and began to cross the Makata plain, now a swamp thirty-five miles broad. It was plash, plash, through the water in some places three or four feet deep, for two days, until they came in sight of the Rudewa River. Crossing a branch of this stream, a sheet of water five miles broad stretched out before the tired caravan. The men declared it could not be crossed, but Stanley determined to try, and after five hours of the most prostrating effort they reached dry ground. The animals, however, began to sicken from this day on, while Stanley himself was seized with dysentery caused by his exposure, and was brought to the verge of the grave. The expedition seemed about to end there on the borders of the Makata swamp.