← catalogue

Allan and the Holy Flower

by H. Rider Haggard · English · Gutenberg #5174 · 663,558 chars · public domain (US)

The Project Gutenberg eBook of Allan and the Holy Flower
    
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online
at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States,
you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located
before using this eBook.

Title: Allan and the Holy Flower

Author: H. Rider Haggard


        
Release date: February 1, 2004 [eBook #5174]
                Most recently updated: January 13, 2021

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/5174

Credits: Produced by John Bickers, Dagny, and David Widger


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ALLAN AND THE HOLY FLOWER ***




Produced by John Bickers, and Dagny








ALLAN AND THE HOLY FLOWER

By H. Rider Haggard

First Published 1915.





CHAPTER I

                             BROTHER JOHN

I do not suppose that anyone who knows the name of Allan Quatermain
would be likely to associate it with flowers, and especially with
orchids. Yet as it happens it was once my lot to take part in an orchid
hunt of so remarkable a character that I think its details should not
be lost. At least I will set them down, and if in the after days anyone
cares to publish them, well--he is at liberty to do so.

It was in the year--oh! never mind the year, it was a long while ago
when I was much younger, that I went on a hunting expedition to the
north of the Limpopo River which borders the Transvaal. My companion was
a gentleman of the name of Scroope, Charles Scroope. He had come out to
Durban from England in search of sport. At least, that was one of his
reasons. The other was a lady whom I will call Miss Margaret Manners,
though that was not her name.

It seems that these two were engaged to be married, and really attached
to each other. Unfortunately, however, they quarrelled violently about
another gentleman with whom Miss Manners danced four consecutive dances,
including two that were promised to her _fiancé_ at a Hunt ball in Essex,
where they all lived. Explanations, or rather argument, followed. Mr.
Scroope said that he would not tolerate such conduct. Miss Manners
replied that she would not be dictated to; she was her own mistress and
meant to remain so. Mr. Scroope exclaimed that she might so far as he
was concerned. She answered that she never wished to see his face again.
He declared with emphasis that she never should and that he was going to
Africa to shoot elephants.

What is more, he went, starting from his Essex home the next day without
leaving any address. As it transpired afterwards, long afterwards, had
he waited till the post came in he would have received a letter that
might have changed his plans. But they were high-spirited young people,
both of them, and played the fool after the fashion of those in love.

Well, Charles Scroope turned up in Durban, which was but a poor place
then, and there we met in the bar of the Royal Hotel.

“If you want to kill big game,” I heard some one say, who it was
I really forget, “there’s the man to show you how to do it--Hunter
Quatermain; the best shot in Africa and one of the finest fellows, too.”

I sat still, smoking my pipe and pretending to hear nothing. It is
awkward to listen to oneself being praised, and I was always a shy man.

Then after a whispered colloquy Mr. Scroope was brought forward and
introduced to me. I bowed as nicely as I could and ran my eye over him.
He was a tall young man with dark eyes and a rather romantic aspect
(that was due to his love affair), but I came to the conclusion that I
liked the cut of his jib. When he spoke, that conclusion was affirmed. I
always think there is a great deal in a voice; personally, I judge by it
almost as much as by the face. This voice was particularly pleasant and
sympathetic, though there was nothing very original or striking in the
words by which it was, so to speak, introduced to me. These were:

“How do you do, sir. Will you have a split?”

I answered that I never drank spirits in the daytime, or at least not
often, but that I should be pleased to take a small bottle of beer.

When the beer was consumed we walked up together to my little house
on what is now called the Berea, the same in which, amongst others, I
received my friends, Curtis and Good, in after days, and there we dined.
Indeed, Charlie Scroope never left that house until we started on our
shooting expedition.

Now I must cut all this story short, since it is only incidentally that
it has to do with the tale I am going to tell. Mr. Scroope was a rich
man and as he offered to pay all the expenses of the expedition while I
was to take all the profit in the shape of ivory or anything else that
might accrue, of course I did not decline his proposal.

Everything went well with us on that trip until its unfortunate end.
We only killed two elephants, but of other game we found plenty. It was
when we were near Delagoa Bay on our return that the accident happened.

We were out one evening trying to shoot something for our dinner, when
between the trees I caught sight of a small buck. It vanished round a
little promontory of rock which projected from the side of the kloof,
walking quietly, not running in alarm. We followed after it. I was the
first, and had just wriggled round these rocks and perceived the buck
standing about ten paces away (it was a bush-bok), when I heard a rustle
among the bushes on the top of the rock not a dozen feet above my head,
and Charlie Scroope’s voice calling:

“Look out, Quatermain! He’s coming.”

“Who’s coming?” I answered in an irritated tone, for the noise had made
the buck run away.

Then it occurred to me, all in an instant of course, that a man would
not begin to shout like that for nothing; at any rate when his supper
was concerned. So I glanced up above and behind me. To this moment I can
remember exactly what I saw. There was the granite water-worn boulder,
or rather several boulders, with ferns growing in their cracks of the
maiden-hair tribe, most of them, but some had a silver sheen on the
under side of their leaves. On one of these leaves, bending it down, sat
a large beetle with red wings and a black body engaged in rubbing its
antennæ with its front paws. And above, just appearing over the top of
the rock, was the head of an extremely fine leopard. As I write, I
seem to perceive its square jowl outlined against the arc of the quiet
evening sky with the saliva dropping from its lips.

This was the last thing which I did perceive for a little while, since
at that moment the leopard--we call them tigers in South Africa--dropped
upon my back and knocked me flat as a pancake. I presume that it also
had been stalking the buck and was angry at my appearance on the scene.
Down I went, luckily for me, into a patch of mossy soil.

“All up!” I said to myself, for I felt the brute’s weight upon my back
pressing me down among the moss, and what was worse, its hot breath upon
my neck as it dropped its jaws to bite me in the head. Then I heard
the report of Scroope’s rifle, followed by furious snarling from the
leopard, which evidently had been hit. Also it seemed to think that I
had caused its injuries, for it seized me by the shoulder. I felt its
teeth slip along my skin, but happily they only fastened in the shooting
coat of tough corduroy that I was wearing. It began to shake me, then
let go to get a better grip. Now, remembering that Scroope only carried
a light, single-barrelled rifle, and therefore could not fire again,
I knew, or thought I knew, that my time had come. I was not exactly
afraid, but the sense of some great, impending change became very
vivid. I remembered--not my whole life, but one or two odd little things
connected with my infancy. For instance, I seemed to see myself seated
on my mother’s knee, playing with a little jointed gold-fish which she
wore upon her watch-chain.

After this I muttered a word or two of supplication, and, I think, lost
consciousness. If so, it can only have been for a few seconds. Then my
mind returned to me and I saw a strange sight. The leopard and Scroope
were fighting each other. The leopard, standing on one hind leg, for
the other was broken, seemed to be boxing Scroope, whilst Scroope was
driving his big hunting knife into the brute’s carcase. They went down,
Scroope undermost, the leopard tearing at him. I gave a wriggle and came
out of that mossy bed--I recall the sucking sound my body made as it
left the ooze.

Close by was my rifle, uninjured and at full cock as it had fallen from
my hand. I seized it, and in another second had shot the leopard through
the head just as it was about to seize Scroope’s throat.

It fell stone dead on the top of him. One quiver, one contraction of the
claws (in poor Scroope’s leg) and all was over. There it lay as though
it were asleep, and underneath was Scroope.

The difficulty was to get it off him, for the beast was very heavy, but
I managed this at last with the help of a thorn bough I found which some
elephant had torn from a tree. This I used as a lever. There beneath
lay Scroope, literally covered with blood, though whether his own or
the leopard’s I could not tell. At first I thought that he was dead,
but after I had poured some water over him from the little stream that
trickled down the rock, he sat up and asked inconsequently:

“What am I now?”

“A hero,” I answered. (I have always been proud of that repartee.)

Then, discouraging further conversation, I set to work to get him back
to the camp, which fortunately was close at hand.

When we had proceeded a couple of hundred yards, he still making
inconsequent remarks, his right arm round my neck and my left arm round
his middle, suddenly he collapsed in a dead faint, and as his weight was
more than I could carry, I had to leave him and fetch help.

In the end I got him to the tents by aid of the Kaffirs and a blanket,
and there made an examination. He was scratched all over, but the only
serious wounds were a bite through the muscles of the left upper arm and
three deep cuts in the right thigh just where it joins the body, caused
by a stroke of the leopard’s claws. I gave him a dose of laudanum to
send him to sleep and dressed these hurts as best I could. For three
days he went on quite well. Indeed, the wounds had begun to heal
healthily when suddenly some kind of fever took him, caused, I suppose,
by the poison of the leopard’s fangs or claws.

Oh! what a terrible week was that which followed! He became delirious,
raving continually of all sorts of things, and especially of Miss
Margaret Manners. I kept up his strength as well as was possible with
soup made from the flesh of game, mixed with a little brandy which I
had. But he grew weaker and weaker. Also the wounds in the thigh began
to suppurate.

The Kaffirs whom we had with us were of little use in such a case, so
that all the nursing fell on me. Luckily, beyond a shaking, the leopard
had done me no hurt, and I was very strong in those days. Still the lack
of rest told on me, since I dared not sleep for more than half an hour
or so at a time. At length came a morning when I was quite worn out.
There lay poor Scroope turning and muttering in the little tent, and
there I sat by his side, wondering whether he would live to see another
dawn, or if he did, for how long I should be able to tend him. I called
to a Kaffir to bring me my coffee, and just as I was lifting the
pannikin to my lips with a shaking hand, help came.

It arrived in a very strange shape. In front of our camp were two
thorn trees, and from between these trees, the rays from the rising
sun falling full on him, I saw a curious figure walking towards me in
a slow, purposeful fashion. It was that of a man of uncertain age, for
though the beard and long hair were white, the face was comparatively
youthful, save for the wrinkles round the mouth, and the dark eyes were
full of life and vigour. Tattered garments, surmounted by a torn kaross
or skin rug, hung awkwardly upon his tall, thin frame. On his feet
were veld-schoen of untanned hide, on his back a battered tin case was
strapped, and in his bony, nervous hand he clasped a long staff made
of the black and white wood the natives call _unzimbiti_, on the top
of which was fixed a butterfly net. Behind him were some Kaffirs who
carried cases on their heads.

I knew him at once, since we had met before, especially on a certain
occasion in Zululand, when he calmly appeared out of the ranks of a
hostile native _impi_. He was one of the strangest characters in all
South Africa. Evidently a gentleman in the true sense of the word, none
knew his history (although I know it now, and a strange story it is),
except that he was an American by birth, for in this matter at times his
speech betrayed him. Also he was a doctor by profession, and to judge
from his extraordinary skill, one who must have seen much practice both
in medicine and in surgery. For the rest he had means, though where
they came from was a mystery, and for many years past had wandered about
South and Eastern Africa, collecting butterflies and flowers.

By the natives, and I might add by white people also, he was universally
supposed to be mad. This reputation, coupled with his medical skill,
enabled him to travel wherever he would without the slightest fear of
molestation, since the Kaffirs look upon the mad as inspired by God.
Their name for him was “Dogeetah,” a ludicrous corruption of the English
word “doctor,” whereas white folk called him indifferently “Brother
John,” “Uncle Jonathan,” or “Saint John.” The second appellation he got
from his extraordinary likeness (when cleaned up and nicely dressed)
to the figure by which the great American nation is typified in comic
papers, as England is typified by John Bull. The first and third arose
in the well-known goodness of his character and a taste he was supposed
to possess for living on locusts and wild honey, or their local
equivalents. Personally, however, he preferred to be addressed as
“Brother John.”

Oh! who can tell the relief with which I saw him; an angel from heaven
could scarcely have been more welcome. As he came I poured out a second
jorum of coffee, and remembering that he liked it sweet, put in plenty
of sugar.

“How do you do, Brother John?” I said, proffering him the coffee.

“Greeting, Brother Allan,” he answered--in those days he affected a kind
of old Roman way of speaking, as I imagine it. Then he took the coffee,
put his long finger into it to test the temperature and stir up the
sugar, drank it off as though it were a dose of medicine, and handed
back the tin to be refilled.

“Bug-hunting?” I queried.

He nodded. “That and flowers and observing human nature and the
wonderful works of God. Wandering around generally.”

“Where from last?” I asked.

“Those hills nearly twenty miles away. Left them at eight in the
evening; walked all night.”

“Why?” I said, looking at him.

“Because it seemed as though someone were calling me. To be plain, you,
Allan.”

“Oh! you heard about my being here and the trouble?”

“No, heard nothing. Meant to strike out for the coast this morning.
Just as I was turning in, at 8.5 exactly, got your message and started.
That’s all.”

“My message----” I began, then stopped, and asking to see his watch,
compared it with mine. Oddly enough, they showed the same time to within
two minutes.

“It is a strange thing,” I said slowly, “but at 8.5 last night I did try
to send a message for some help because I thought my mate was dying,”
 and I jerked my thumb towards the tent. “Only it wasn’t to you or any
other man, Brother John. Understand?”

“Quite. Message was expressed on, that’s all. Expressed and I guess
registered as well.”

I looked at Brother John and Brother John looked at me, but at the time
we made no further remark. The thing was too curious, that is, unless
he lied. But nobody had ever known him to lie. He was a truthful person,
painfully truthful at times. And yet there are people who do not believe
in prayer.

“What is it?” he asked.

“Mauled by leopard. Wounds won’t heal, and fever. I don’t think he can
last long.”

“What do you know about it? Let me see him.”

Well, he saw him and did wonderful things. That tin box of his was full
of medicines and surgical instruments, which latter he boiled before he
used them. Also he washed his hands till I thought the skin would come
off them, using up more soap than I could spare. First he gave poor
Charlie a dose of something that seemed to kill him; he said he had that
drug from the Kaffirs. Then he opened up those wounds upon his thigh and
cleaned them out and bandaged them with boiled herbs. Afterwards, when
Scroope came to again, he gave him a drink that threw him into a sweat
and took away the fever. The end of it was that in two days’ time his
patient sat up and asked for a square meal, and in a week we were able
to begin to carry him to the coast.

“Guess that message of yours saved Brother Scroope’s life,” said old
John, as he watched him start.

I made no answer. Here I may state, however, that through my own men I
inquired a little as to Brother John’s movements at the time of what he
called the message. It seemed that he _had_ arranged to march towards
the coast on the next morning, but that about two hours after sunset
suddenly he ordered them to pack up everything and follow him. This they
did and to their intense disgust those Kaffirs were forced to trudge all
night at the heels of Dogeetah, as they called him. Indeed, so weary
did they become, that had they not been afraid of being left alone in an
unknown country in the darkness, they said they would have thrown down
their loads and refused to go any further.

That is as far as I was able to take the matter, which may be explained
by telepathy, inspiration, instinct, or coincidence. It is one as to
which the reader must form his own opinion.

During our week together in camp and our subsequent journey to Delagoa
Bay and thence by ship to Durban, Brother John and I grew very intimate,
with limitations. Of his past, as I have said, he never talked, or of
the real object of his wanderings which I learned afterwards, but of his
natural history and ethnological (I believe that is the word) studies he
spoke a good deal. As, in my humble way, I also am an observer of such
matters and know something about African natives and their habits from
practical experience, these subjects interested me.

Amongst other things, he showed me many of the specimens that he had
collected during his recent journey; insects and beautiful butterflies
neatly pinned into boxes, also a quantity of dried flowers pressed
between sheets of blotting paper, amongst them some which he told me
were orchids. Observing that these attracted me, he asked me if I would
like to see the most wonderful orchid in the whole world. Of course I
said yes, whereon he produced out of one of his cases a flat package
about two feet six square. He undid the grass mats in which it was
wrapped, striped, delicately woven mats such as they make in the
neighbourhood of Zanzibar. Within these was the lid of a packing-case.
Then came more mats and some copies of _The Cape Journal_ spread out
flat. Then sheets of blotting paper, and last of all between two pieces
of cardboard, a flower and one leaf of the plant on which it grew.

Even in its dried state it was a wondrous thing, measuring twenty-four
inches from the tip of one wing or petal to the tip of the other, by
twenty inches from the top of the back sheath to the bottom of the
pouch. The measurement of the back sheath itself I forget, but it must
have been quite a foot across. In colour it was, or had been, bright
golden, but the back sheath was white, barred with lines of black, and
in the exact centre of the pouch was a single black spot shaped like the
head of a great ape. There were the overhanging brows, the deep recessed
eyes, the surly mouth, the massive jaws--everything.

Although at that time I had never seen a gorilla in the flesh, I had
seen a coloured picture of the brute, and if that picture had been
photographed on the flower the likeness could not have been more
perfect.

“What is it?” I asked, amazed.

“Sir,” said Brother John, sometimes he used this formal term when
excited, “it is the most marvellous Cypripedium in the whole earth, and,
sir, I have discovered it. A healthy root of that plant will be worth
£20,000.”

“That’s better than gold mining,” I said. “Well, have you got the root?”

Brother John shook his head sadly as he answered:

“No such luck.”

“How’s that as you have the flower?”

“I’ll tell you, Allan. For a year past and more I have been collecting
in the district back of Kilwa and found some wonderful things, yes,
wonderful. At last, about three hundred miles inland, I came to a tribe,
or rather, a people, that no white man had ever visited. They are called
the Mazitu, a numerous and warlike people of bastard Zulu blood.”

“I have heard of them,” I interrupted. “They broke north before the days
of Senzangakona, two hundred years or more ago.”

“Well, I could make myself understood among them because they still
talk a corrupt Zulu, as do all the tribes in those parts. At first they
wanted to kill me, but let me go because they thought that I was mad.
Everyone thinks that I am mad, Allan; it is a kind of public delusion,
whereas I think that I am sane and that most other people are mad.”

“A private delusion,” I suggested hurriedly, as I did not wish to
discuss Brother John’s sanity. “Well, go on about the Mazitu.”

“Later they discovered that I had skill in medicine, and their king,
Bausi, came to me to be treated for a great external tumour. I risked
an operation and cured him. It was anxious work, for if he had died I
should have died too, though that would not have troubled me very much,”
 and he sighed. “Of course, from that moment I was supposed to be a great
magician. Also Bausi made a blood brotherhood with me, transfusing some
of his blood into my veins and some of mine into his. I only hope he has
not inoculated me with his tumours, which are congenital. So I became
Bausi and Bausi became me. In other words, I was as much chief of the
Mazitu as he was, and shall remain so all my life.”

“That might be useful,” I said, reflectively, “but go on.”

“I learned that on the western boundary of the Mazitu territory were
great swamps; that beyond these swamps was a lake called Kirua, and
beyond that a large and fertile land supposed to be an island, with
a mountain in its centre. This land is known as Pongo, and so are the
people who live there.”

“That is a native name for the gorilla, isn’t it?” I asked. “At least so
a fellow who had been on the West Coast told me.”

“Indeed, then that’s strange, as you will see. Now these Pongo are
supposed to be great magicians, and the god they worship is said to be
a gorilla, which, if you are right, accounts for their name. Or rather,”
 he went on, “they have two gods. The other is that flower you see there.
Whether the flower with the monkey’s head on it was the first god and
suggested the worship of the beast itself, or _vice versa_, I don’t
know. Indeed I know very little, just what I was told by the Mazitu and
a man who called himself a Pongo chief, no more.”

“What did they say?”

“The Mazitu said that the Pongo people are devils who came by the secret
channels through the reeds in canoes and stole their children and women,
whom they sacrificed to their gods. Sometimes, too, they made raids upon
them at night, ‘howling like hyenas.’ The men they killed and the women
and children they took away. The Mazitu want to attack them but cannot
do so, because they are not water people and have no canoes, and
therefore are unable to reach the island, if it is an island. Also they
told me about the wonderful flower which grows in the place where the
ape-god lives, and is worshipped like the god. They had the story of it
from some of their people who had been enslaved and escaped.”

“Did you try to get to the island?” I asked.

“Yes, Allan. That is, I went to the edge of the reeds which lie at the
end of a long slope of plain, where the lake begins. Here I stopped for
some time catching butterflies and collecting plants. One night when I
was camped there by myself, for none of my men would remain so near the
Pongo country after sunset, I woke up with a sense that I was no longer
alone. I crept out of my tent and by the light of the moon, which was
setting, for dawn drew near, I saw a man who leant upon the handle of a
very wide-bladed spear which was taller than himself, a big man over six
feet two high, I should say, and broad in proportion. He wore a long,
white cloak reaching from his shoulders almost to the ground. On his
head was a tight-fitting cap with lappets, also white. In his ears were
rings of copper or gold, and on his wrists bracelets of the same metal.
His skin was intensely black, but the features were not at all negroid.
They were prominent and finely-cut, the nose being sharp and the lips
quite thin; indeed of an Arab type. His left hand was bandaged, and on
his face was an expression of great anxiety. Lastly, he appeared to be
about fifty years of age. So still did he stand that I began to wonder
whether he were one of those ghosts which the Mazitu swore the Pongo
wizards send out to haunt their country.

“For a long while we stared at each other, for I was determined that I
would not speak first or show any concern. At last he spoke in a low,
deep voice and in Mazitu, or a language so similar that I found it easy
to understand.

“‘Is not your name Dogeetah, O White Lord, and are you not a master of
medicine?’

“‘Yes,’ I answered, ‘but who are you who dare to wake me from my sleep?’

“‘Lord, I am the Kalubi, the Chief of the Pongo, a great man in my own
land yonder.’

“‘Then why do you come here alone at night, Kalubi, Chief of the Pongo?’

“‘Why do _you_ come here alone, White Lord?’ he answered evasively.

“‘What do you want, anyway?’ I asked.

“‘O! Dogeetah, I have been hurt, I want you to cure me,’ and he looked
at his bandaged hand.

“‘Lay down that spear and open your robe that I may see you have no
knife.’

“He obeyed, throwing the spear to some distance.

“‘Now unwrap the hand.’

“He did so. I lit a match, the sight of which seemed to frighten him
greatly, although he asked no questions about it, and by its light
examined the hand. The first joint of the second finger was gone. From
the appearance of the stump which had been cauterized and was tied
tightly with a piece of flexible grass, I judged that it had been bitten
off.

“‘What did this?’ I asked.

“‘Monkey,’ he answered, ‘poisonous monkey. Cut off the finger, O
Dogeetah, or tomorrow I die.’

“‘Why do you not tell your own doctors to cut off the finger, you who
are Kalubi, Chief of the Pongo?’

“‘No, no,’ he replied, shaking his head. ‘They cannot do it. It is not
lawful. And I, I cannot do it, for if the flesh is black the hand must
come off too, and if the flesh is black at the wrist, then the arm must
be cut off.’

“I sat down on my camp stool and reflected. Really I was waiting for the
sun to rise, since it was useless to attempt an operation in that light.
The man, Kalubi, thought that I had refused his petition and became
terribly agitated.

“‘Be merciful, White Lord,’ he prayed, ‘do not let me die. I am afraid
to die. Life is bad, but death is worse. O! If you refuse me, I will
kill myself here before you and then my ghost will haunt you till you
die also of fear and come to join me. What fee do you ask? Gold or ivory
or slaves? Say and I will give it.’

“‘Be silent,’ I said, for I saw that if he went on thus he would throw
himself into a fever, which might cause the operation to prove fatal.
For the same reason I did not question him about many things I should
have liked to learn. I lit my fire and boiled the instruments--he
thought I was making magic. By the time that everything was ready the
sun was up.

“‘Now,’ I said, ‘let me see how brave you are.’

“Well, Allan, I performed that operation, removing the finger at the
base where it joins the hand, as I thought there might be something in
his story of the poison. Indeed, as I found afterwards on dissection,
and can show you, for I have the thing in spirits, there was, for the
blackness of which he spoke—a kind of mortification, I presume—had
crept almost to the joint, though the flesh beyond was healthy enough.
Certainly that Kalubi was a plucky fellow. He sat like a rock and never
even winced. Indeed, when he saw that the flesh was sound he uttered a
great sigh of relief. After it was all over he turned a little faint, so
I gave him some spirits of wine mixed with water which revived him.

“‘O Lord Dogeetah,’ he said, as I was bandaging his hand, ‘while I live
I am your slave. Yet, do me one more service. In my land there is a
terrible wild beast, that which bit off my finger. It is a devil; it
kills us and we fear it. I have heard that you white men have magic
weapons which slay with a noise. Come to my land and kill me that wild
beast with your magic weapon. I say, Come, Come, for I am terribly
afraid,’ and indeed he looked it.

“‘No,’ I answered, ‘I shed no blood; I kill nothing except butterflies,
and of these only a few. But if you fear this brute why do you not
poison it? You black people have many drugs.’

“‘No use, no use,’ he replied in a kind of wail. ‘The beast knows
poisons, some it swallows and they do not harm it. Others it will not
touch. Moreover, no black man can do it hurt. It is white, and it has
been known from of old that if it dies at all, it must be by the hand of
one who is white.’

“‘A very strange animal,’ I began, suspiciously, for I felt sure that he
was lying to me. But just at that moment I heard the sound of my men’s
voices. They were advancing towards me through the giant grass, singing
as they came, but as yet a long way off. The Kalubi heard it also and
sprang up.

“‘I must be gone,’ he said. ‘None must see me here. What fee, O Lord of
medicine, what fee?’

“‘I take no payment for my medicine,’ I said. ‘Yet--stay. A wonderful
flower grows in your country, does it not? A flower with wings and a cup
beneath. I would have that flower.’

“‘Who told you of the Flower?’ he asked. ‘The Flower is holy. Still, O
White Lord, still for you it shall be risked. Oh, return and bring with
you one who can kill the beast and I will make you rich. Return and call
to the reeds for the Kalubi, and the Kalubi will hear and come to you.’

“Then he ran to his spear, snatched it from the ground and vanished
among the reeds. That was the last I saw, or am ever likely to see, of
him.”

“But, Brother John, you got the flower somehow.”

“Yes, Allan. About a week later when I came out of my tent one morning,
there it was standing in a narrow-mouthed, earthenware pot filled with
water. Of course I meant that he was to send me the plant, roots and
all, but I suppose he understood that I wanted a bloom. Or perhaps he
dared not send the plant. Anyhow, it is better than nothing.”

“Why did you not go into the country and get it for yourself?”

“For several reasons, Allan, of which the best is that it was
impossible. The Mazitu swear that if anyone sees that flower he is put
to death. Indeed, when they found that I had a bloom of it, they forced
me to move to the other side of the country seventy miles away. So I
thought that I would wait till I met with some companions who would
accompany me. Indeed, to be frank, Allan, it occurred to me that you
were the sort of man who would like to interview this wonderful beast
that bites off people’s fingers and frightens them to death,” and
Brother John stroked his long, white beard and smiled, adding, “Odd that
we should have met so soon afterwards, isn’t it?”

“Did you?” I replied, “now did you indeed? Brother John, people say
all sorts of things about you, but I have come to the conclusion that
there’s nothing the matter with your wits.”

Again he smiled and stroked his long, white beard.




CHAPTER II

                           THE AUCTION ROOM

I do not think that this conversation about the Pongo savages who were
said to worship a Gorilla and a Golden Flower was renewed until we
reached my house at Durban. Thither of course I took Mr. Charles
Scroope, and thither also came Brother John who, as bedroom
accommodation was lacking, pitched his tent in the garden.

One night we sat on the step smoking; Brother John’s only concession to
human weakness was that he smoked. He drank no wine or spirits; he never
ate meat unless he was obliged, but I rejoice to say that he smoked
cigars, like most Americans, when he could get them.

“John,” said I, “I have been thinking over that yarn of yours and have
come to one or two conclusions.”

“What may they be, Allan?”

“The first is that you were a great donkey not to get more out of the
Kalubi when you had the chance.”

“Agreed, Allan, but, amongst other things, I am a doctor and the
operation was uppermost in my mind.”

“The second is that I believe this Kalubi had charge of the gorilla-god,
as no doubt you’ve guessed; also that it was the gorilla which bit off
his finger.”

“Why so?”

“Because I have heard of great monkeys called _sokos_ that live in
Central East Africa which are said to bite off men’s toes and fingers. I
have heard too that they are very like gorillas.”

“Now you mention it, so have I, Allan. Indeed, once I saw a _soko_,
though some way off, a huge, brown ape which stood on its hind legs and
drummed upon its chest with its fists. I didn’t see it for long because
I ran away.”

“The third is that this yellow orchid would be worth a great deal of
money if one could dig it up and take it to England.”

“I think I told you, Allan, that I valued it at £20,000, so that
conclusion of yours is not original.”

“The fourth is that I should like to dig up that orchid and get a share
of the £20,000.”

Brother John became intensely interested.

“Ah!” he said, “now we are getting to the point. I have been wondering
how long it would take you to see it, Allan, but if you are slow, you
are sure.”

“The fifth is,” I went on, “that such an expedition to succeed would
need a great deal of money, more than you or I could find. Partners
would be wanted, active or sleeping, but partners with cash.”

Brother John looked towards the window of the room in which Charlie
Scroope was in bed, for being still weak he went to rest early.

“No,” I said, “he’s had enough of Africa, and you told me yourself that
it will be two years before he is really strong again. Also there’s a
lady in this case. Now listen. I have taken it on myself to write to
that lady, whose address I found out while he didn’t know what he was
saying. I have said that he was dying, but that I hoped he might live.
Meanwhile, I added, I thought she would like to know that he did nothing
but rave of her; also that he was a hero, with a big H twice underlined.
My word! I did lay it on about the hero business with a spoon, a real
hotel gravy spoon. If Charlie Scroope knows himself again when he sees
my description of him, well, I’m a Dutchman, that’s all. The letter
caught the last mail and will, I hope, reach the lady in due course. Now
listen again. Scroope wants me to go to England with him to look after
him on the voyage--that’s what he says. What he means is that he hopes
I might put in a word for him with the lady, if I should chance to
be introduced to her. He offers to pay all my expenses and to give me
something for my loss of time. So, as I haven’t seen England since I was
three years old, I think I’ll take the chance.”

Brother John’s face fell. “Then how about the expedition, Allan?” he
asked.

“This is the first of November,” I answered, “and the wet season in
those parts begins about now and lasts till April. So it would be no use
trying to visit your Pongo friends till then, which gives me plenty of
time to go to England and come out again. If you’ll trust that flower
to me I’ll take it with me. Perhaps I might be able to find someone who
would be willing to put down money on the chance of getting the plant on
which it grew. Meanwhile, you are welcome to this house if you care to
stay here.”

“Thank you, Allan, but I can’t sit still for so many months. I’ll go
somewhere and come back.” He paused and a dreamy look came into his dark
eyes, then went on, “You see, Brother, it is laid on me to wander and
wander through all this great land until--I know.”

“Until you know what?” I asked, sharply.

He pulled himself together with a jerk, as it were, and answered with a
kind of forced carelessness.

“Until I know every inch of it, of course. There are lots of tribes I
have not yet visited.”

“Including the Pongo,” I said. “By the way, if I can get the money
together for a trip up there, I suppose you mean to come too, don’t
you? If not, the thing’s off so far as I am concerned. You see, I am
reckoning on you to get us through the Mazitu and into Pongo-land by the
help of your friends.”

“Certainly I mean to come. In fact, if you don’t go, I shall start
alone. I intend to explore Pongo-land even if I never come out of it
again.”

Once more I looked at him as I answered:

“You are ready to risk a great deal for a flower, John. Or are you
looking for more than a flower? If so, I hope you will tell me the
truth.”

This I said as I was aware that Brother John had a foolish objection to
uttering, or even acting lies.

“Well, Allan, as you put it like that, the truth is that I heard
something more about the Pongo than I told you up country. It was after
I had operated on that Kalubi, or I would have tried to get in alone.
But this I could not do then as I have said.”

“And what did you hear?”

“I heard that they had a white goddess as well as a white god.”

“Well, what of it? A female gorilla, I suppose.”

“Nothing, except that goddesses have always interested me. Good night.”

“You are an odd old fish,” I remarked after him, “and what is more you
have got something up your sleeve. Well, I’ll have it down one day.
Meanwhile, I wonder whether the whole thing is a lie, no; not a lie, an
hallucination. It can’t be--because of that orchid. No one can explain
away the orchid. A queer people, these Pongo, with their white god and
goddess and their Holy Flower. But after all Africa is a land of queer
people, and of queer gods too.”



And now the story shifts away to England. (Don’t be afraid, my
adventurous reader, if ever I have one, it is coming back to Africa
again in a very few pages.)

Mr. Charles Scroope and I left Durban a day or two after my last
conversation with Brother John. At Cape Town we caught the mail, a
wretched little boat you would think it now, which after a long and
wearisome journey at length landed us safe at Plymouth. Our companions
on that voyage were very dull. I have forgotten most of them, but one
lady I do remember. I imagine that she must have commenced life as a
barmaid, for she had the orthodox tow hair and blowsy appearance. At any
rate, she was the wife of a wine-merchant who had made a fortune at the
Cape. Unhappily, however, she had contracted too great a liking for her
husband’s wares, and after dinner was apt to become talkative. For some
reason or other she took a particular aversion to me. Oh! I can see her
now, seated in that saloon with the oil lamp swinging over her head (she
always chose the position under the oil lamp because it showed off
her diamonds). And I can hear her too. “Don’t bring any of your
elephant-hunting manners here, Mr. Allan” (with an emphasis on the
Allan) “Quatermain, they are not fit for polite society. You should go
and brush your hair, Mr. Quatermain.” (I may explain that my hair sticks
up naturally.)

Then would come her little husband’s horrified “Hush! hush! you are
quite insulting, my dear.”

Oh! why do I remember it all after so many years when I have even
forgotten the people’s names? One of those little things that stick in
the mind, I suppose. The Island of Ascension, where we called, sticks
also with its long swinging rollers breaking in white foam, its bare
mountain peak capped with green, and the turtles in the ponds. Those
poor turtles. We brought two of them home, and I used to look at them
lying on their backs in the forecastle flapping their fins feebly. One
of them died, and I got the butcher to save me the shell. Afterwards I
gave it as a wedding present to Mr. and Mrs. Scroope, nicely polished
and lined. I meant it for a work-basket, and was overwhelmed with
confusion when some silly lady said at the marriage, and in the hearing
of the bride and bridegroom, that it was the most beautiful cradle
she had ever seen. Of course, like a fool, I tried to explain, whereon
everybody tittered.

But why do I write of such trifles that have nothing to do with my
story?

I mentioned that I had ventured to send a letter to Miss Margaret
Manners about Mr. Charles Scroope, in which I said incidentally that if
the hero should happen to live I should probably bring him home by
the next mail. Well, we got into Plymouth about eight o’clock in the
morning, on a mild, November day, and shortly afterwards a tug arrived
to take off the passengers and mails; also some cargo. I, being an early
riser, watched it come and saw upon the deck a stout lady wrapped in
furs, and by her side a very pretty, fair-haired young woman clad in a
neat serge dress and a pork-pie hat. Presently a steward told me that
someone wished to speak to me in the saloon. I went and found these two
standing side by side.

“I believe you are Mr. Allan Quatermain,” said the stout lady. “Where is
Mr. Scroope whom I understand you have brought home? Tell me at once.”

Something about her appearance and fierce manner of address alarmed me
so much that I could only answer feebly:

“Below, madam, below.”

“There, my dear,” said the stout lady to her companion, “I warned you to
be prepared for the worst. Bear up; do not make a scene before all these
people. The ways of Providence are just and inscrutable. It is your own
temper that was to blame. You should never have sent the poor man off to
these heathen countries.”

Then, turning to me, she added sharply: “I suppose he is embalmed; we
should like to bury him in Essex.”

“Embalmed!” I gasped. “Embalmed! Why, the man is in his bath, or was a
few minutes ago.”

In another second that pretty young lady who had been addressed was
weeping with her head upon my shoulder.

“Margaret!” exclaimed her companion (she was a kind of heavy aunt), “I
told you not to make a scene in public. Mr. Quatermain, as Mr. Scroope
is alive, would you ask him to be so good as to come here.”

Well, I fetched him, half-shaved, and the rest of the business may be
imagined. It is a very fine thing to be a hero with a big H. Henceforth
(thanks to me) that was Charlie Scroope’s lot in life. He has
grandchildren now, and they all think him a hero. What is more, he does
not contradict them. I went down to the lady’s place in Essex, a fine
property with a beautiful old house. On the night I arrived there was a
dinner-party of twenty-four people. I had to make a speech about Charlie
Scroope and the leopard. I think it was a good speech. At any rate
everybody cheered, including the servants, who had gathered at the back
of the big hall.

I remember that to complete the story I introduced several other
leopards, a mother and two three-part-grown cubs, also a wounded
buffalo, and told how Mr. Scroope finished them off one after the other
with a hunting knife. The thing was to watch his face as the history
proceeded. Luckily he was sitting next to me and I could kick him under
the table. It was all very amusing, and very happy also, for these two
really loved each other. Thank God that I, or rather Brother John, was
able to bring them together again.

It was during that stay of mine in Essex, by the way, that I first met
Lord Ragnall and the beautiful Miss Holmes with whom I was destined to
experience some very strange adventures in the after years.



After this interlude I got to work. Someone told me that there was a
firm in the City that made a business of selling orchids by auction,
flowers which at this time were beginning to be very fashionable among
rich horticulturists. This, thought I, would be the place for me to
show my treasure. Doubtless Messrs. May and Primrose--that was their
world-famed style--would be able to put me in touch with opulent
orchidists who would not mind venturing a couple of thousands on the
chance of receiving a share in a flower that, according to Brother John,
should be worth untold gold. At any rate, I would try.

So on a certain Friday, about half-past twelve, I sought out the place
of business of Messrs. May and Primrose, bearing with me the golden
Cypripedium, which was now enclosed in a flat tin case.

As it happened I chose an unlucky day and hour, for on arriving at the
office and asking for Mr. May, I was informed that he was away in the
country valuing.

“Then I would like to see Mr. Primrose,” I said.

“Mr. Primrose is round at the Rooms selling,” replied the clerk, who
appeared to be very busy.

“Where are the Rooms?” I asked.

“Out of the door, turn to the left, turn to the left again and under the
clock,” said the clerk, and closed the shutter.

So disgusted was I with his rudeness that I nearly gave up the
enterprise. Thinking better of it, however, I followed the directions
given, and in a minute or two found myself in a narrow passage that led
to a large room. To one who had never seen anything of the sort before,
this room offered a curious sight. The first thing I observed was a
notice on the wall to the effect that customers were not allowed to
smoke pipes. I thought to myself that orchids must be curious flowers
if they could distinguish between the smoke of a cigar and a pipe, and
stepped into the room. To my left was a long table covered with pots of
the most beautiful flowers that I had ever seen; all of them orchids.
Along the wall and opposite were other tables closely packed with
withered roots which I concluded were also those of orchids. To my
inexperienced eye the whole lot did not look worth five shillings, for
they seemed to be dead.

At the head of the room stood the rostrum, where sat a gentleman with an
extremely charming face. He was engaged in selling by auction so rapidly
that the clerk at his side must have had difficulty in keeping a record
of the lots and their purchasers. In front of him was a horseshoe table,
round which sat buyers. The end of this table was left unoccupied so
that the porters might exhibit each lot before it was put up for sale.
Standing under the rostrum was yet another table, a small one, upon
which were about twenty pots of flowers, even more wonderful than
those on the large table. A notice stated that these would be sold at
one-thirty precisely. All about the room stood knots of men (such ladies
as were present sat at the table), many of whom had lovely orchids
in their buttonholes. These, I found out afterwards, were dealers and
amateurs. They were a kindly-faced set of people, and I took a liking to
them.

The whole place was quaint and pleasant, especially by contrast with
the horrible London fog outside. Squeezing my small person into a corner
where I was in nobody’s way, I watched the proceedings for a while.
Suddenly an agreeable voice at my side asked me if I would like a look
at the catalogue. I glanced at the speaker, and in a sense fell in love
with him at once--as I have explained before, I am one of those to whom
a first impression means a great deal. He was not very tall, though
strong-looking and well-made enough. He was not very handsome, though
none so ill-favoured. He was just an ordinary fair young Englishman,
four or five-and-twenty years of age, with merry blue eyes and one of
the pleasantest expressions that I ever saw. At once I felt that he
was a sympathetic soul and full of the milk of human kindness. He was
dressed in a rough tweed suit rather worn, with the orchid that seemed
to be the badge of all this tribe in his buttonhole. Somehow the costume
suited his rather pink and white complexion and rumpled fair hair, which
I could see as he was sitting on his cloth hat.

“Thank you, no,” I answered, “I did not come here to buy. I know nothing
about orchids,” I added by way of explanation, “except a few I have seen
growing in Africa, and this one,” and I tapped the tin case which I held
under my arm.

“Indeed,” he said. “I should like to hear about the African orchids.
What is it you have in the case, a plant or flowers?”

“One flower only. It is not mine. A friend in Africa asked me to--well,
that is a long story which might not interest you.”

“I’m not sure. I suppose it must be a Cymbidium scape from the size.”

I shook my head. “That’s not the name my friend mentioned. He called it
a Cypripedium.”

The young man began to grow curious. “One Cypripedium in all that large
case? It must be a big flower.”

“Yes, my friend said it is the biggest ever found. It measures
twenty-four inches across the wings, petals I think he called them, and
about a foot across the back part.”

“Twenty-four inches across the petals and a foot across the dorsal
sepal!” said the young man in a kind of gasp, “and a Cypripedium! Sir,
surely you are joking?”

“Sir,” I answered indignantly, “I am doing nothing of the sort. Your
remark is tantamount to telling me that I am speaking a falsehood. But,
of course, for all I know, the thing may be some other kind of flower.”

“Let me see it. In the name of the goddess Flora let me see it!”

I began to undo the case. Indeed it was already half-open when two other
gentlemen, who had either overheard some of our conversation or noted my
companion’s excited look, edged up to us. I observed that they also wore
orchids in their buttonholes.

“Hullo! Somers,” said one of them in a tone of false geniality, “what
have you got there?”

“What has your friend got there?” asked the other.

“Nothing,” replied the young man who had been addressed as Somers,
“nothing at all; that is--only a case of tropical butterflies.”

“Oh! butterflies,” said No. 1 and sauntered away. But No. 2, a
keen-looking person with the eye of a hawk, was not so easily satisfied.

“Let us see these butterflies,” he said to me.

“You can’t,” ejaculated the young man. “My friend is afraid lest the
damp should injure their colours. Ain’t you, Brown?”

“Yes, I am, Somers,” I replied, taking his cue and shutting the tin case
with a snap.

Then the hawk-eyed person departed, also grumbling, for that story about
the damp stuck in his throat.

“Orchidist!” whispered the young man. “Dreadful people, orchidists, so
jealous. Very rich, too, both of them. Mr. Brown--I hope that is your
name, though I admit the chances are against it.”

“They are,” I replied, “my name is Allan Quatermain.”

“Ah! much better than Brown. Well, Mr. Allan Quatermain, there’s a
private room in this place to which I have admittance. Would you mind
coming with that----” here the hawk-eyed gentleman strolled past again,
“that case of butterflies?”

“With pleasure,” I answered, and followed him out of the auction chamber
down some steps through the door to the left, and ultimately into a
little cupboard-like room lined with shelves full of books and ledgers.

He closed the door and locked it.

“Now,” he said in a tone of the villain in a novel who at last has
come face to face with the virtuous heroine, “now we are alone. Mr.
Quatermain, let me see--those butterflies.”

I placed the case on a deal table which stood under a skylight in the
room. I opened it; I removed the cover of wadding, and there,
pressed between two sheets of glass and quite uninjured after all its
journeyings, appeared the golden flower, glorious even in death, and by
its side the broad green leaf.

The young gentleman called Somers looked at it till I thought his eyes
would really start out of his head. He turned away muttering something
and looked again.

“Oh! Heavens,” he said at last, “oh! Heavens, is it possible that such
a thing can exist in this imperfect world? You haven’t faked it, Mr.
Half--I mean Quatermain, have you?”

“Sir,” I said, “for the second time you are making insinuations. Good
morning,” and I began to shut up the case.

“Don’t be offhanded,” he exclaimed. “Pity the weaknesses of a poor
sinner. You don’t understand. If only you understood, you would
understand.”

“No,” I said, “I am bothered if I do.”

“Well, you will when you begin to collect orchids. I’m not mad, really,
except perhaps on this point, Mr. Quatermain,”--this in a low and
thrilling voice--“that marvellous Cypripedium--your friend is right, it
is a Cypripedium--is worth a gold mine.”

“From my experience of gold mines I can well believe that,” I said
tartly, and, I may add, prophetically.

“Oh! I mean a gold mine in the figurative and colloquial sense, not as
the investor knows it,” he answered. “That is, the plant on which it
grew is priceless. Where is the plant, Mr. Quatermain?”

“In a rather indefinite locality in Africa east by south,” I replied. “I
can’t place it to within three hundred miles.”

“That’s vague, Mr. Quatermain. I have no right to ask it, seeing that
you know nothing of me, but I assure you I am respectable, and in short,
would you mind telling me the story of this flower?”

“I don’t think I should,” I replied, a little doubtfully. Then, after
another good look at him, suppressing all names and exact localities,
I gave him the outline of the tale, explaining that I wanted to find
someone who would finance an expedition to the remote and romantic spot
where this particular Cypripedium was believed to grow.

Just as I finished my narrative, and before he had time to comment on
it, there came a violent knocking at the door.

“Mr. Stephen,” said a voice, “are you there, Mr. Stephen?”

“By Jove! that’s Briggs,” exclaimed the young man. “Briggs is my
father’s manager. Shut up the case, Mr. Quatermain. Come in, Briggs,” he
went on, unlocking the door slowly. “What is it?”

“It is a good deal,” replied a thin and agitated person who thrust
himself through the opening door. “Your father, I mean Sir Alexander,
has come to the office unexpectedly and is in a nice taking because he
didn’t find you there, sir. When he discovered that you had gone to the
orchid sale he grew furious, sir, furious, and sent me to fetch you.”

“Did he?” replied Mr. Somers in an easy and unruffled tone. “Well, tell
Sir Alexander I am coming at once. Now please go, Briggs, and tell him I
am coming at once.”

Briggs departed not too willingly.

“I must leave you, Mr. Quatermain,” said Mr. Somers as he shut the door
behind him. “But will you promise me not to show that flower to anyone
until I return? I’ll be back within half an hour.”

“Yes, Mr. Somers. I’ll wait half an hour for you in the sale room, and I
promise that no one shall see that flower till you return.”

“Thank you. You are a good fellow, and I promise you shall lose nothing
by your kindness if I can help it.”

We went together into the sale room, where some thought suddenly struck
Mr. Somers.

“By Jove!” he said, “I nearly forgot about that Odontoglossum. Where’s
Woodden? Oh! come here, Woodden, I want to speak to you.”

The person called Woodden obeyed. He was a man of about fifty,
indefinite in colouring, for his eyes were very light-blue or grey and
his hair was sandy, tough-looking and strongly made, with big hands that
showed signs of work, for the palms were horny and the nails worn down.
He was clad in a suit of shiny black, such as folk of the labouring
class wear at a funeral. I made up my mind at once that he was a
gardener.

“Woodden,” said Mr. Somers, “this gentleman here has got the most
wonderful orchid in the whole world. Keep your eye on him and see that
he isn’t robbed. There are people in this room, Mr. Quatermain, who
would murder you and throw your body into the Thames for that flower,”
 he added, darkly.

On receipt of this information Woodden rocked a little on his feet as
though he felt the premonitory movements of an earthquake. It was a
habit of his whenever anything astonished him. Then, fixing his pale
eye upon me in a way which showed that my appearance surprised him, he
pulled a lock of his sandy hair with his thumb and finger and said:

“‘Servant, sir, and where might this horchid be?”

I pointed to the tin case.

“Yes, it’s there,” went on Mr. Somers, “and that’s what you’ve got to
watch. Mr. Quatermain, if anyone attempts to rob you, call for Woodden
and he will knock them down. He’s my gardener, you know, and entirely to
be trusted, especially if it is a matter of knocking anyone down.”

“Aye, I’ll knock him down surely,” said Woodden, doubling his great fist
and looking round him with a suspicious eye.

“Now listen, Woodden. Have you looked at that Odontoglossum Pavo, and if
so, what do you think of it?” and he nodded towards a plant which stood
in the centre of the little group that was placed on the small table
beneath the auctioneer’s desk. It bore a spray of the most lovely white
flowers. On the top petal (if it is a petal), and also on the lip of
each of these rounded flowers was a blotch or spot of which the general
effect was similar to the iridescent eye on the tail feathers of a
peacock, whence, I suppose, the flower was named “Pavo,” or Peacock.

“Yes, master, and I think it the beautifullest thing that ever I saw.
There isn’t a ‘glossum in England like that there ‘glossum Paving,”
 he added with conviction, and rocked again as he said the word. “But
there’s plenty after it. I say they’re a-smelling round that blossom
like, like--dawgs round a rat hole. And” (this triumphantly) “they don’t
do that for nothing.”

“Quite so, Woodden, you have got a logical mind. But, look here, we must
have that ‘Pavo’ whatever it costs. Now the Governor has sent for me.
I’ll be back presently, but I might be detained. If so, you’ve got to
bid on my behalf, for I daren’t trust any of these agents. Here’s your
authority,” and he scribbled on a card, “Woodden, my gardener, has
directions to bid for me.--S.S.” “Now, Woodden,” he went on, when he
had given the card to an attendant who passed it up to the auctioneer,
“don’t you make a fool of yourself and let that ‘Pavo’ slip through your
fingers.”

In another instant he was gone.

“What did the master say, sir?” asked Woodden of me. “That I was to get
that there ‘Paving’ whatever it cost?”

“Yes,” I said, “that’s what he said. I suppose it will fetch a good
deal--several pounds.”

“Maybe, sir, can’t tell. All I know is that I’ve got to buy it as you
can bear me witness. Master, he ain’t one to be crossed for money. What
he wants, he’ll have, that is if it be in the orchid line.”

“I suppose you are fond of orchids, too, Mr. Woodden?”

“Fond of them, sir? Why, I loves ‘em!” (Here he rocked.) “Don’t feel for
nothing else in the same way; not even for my old woman” (then with a
burst of enthusiasm) “no, not even for the master himself, and I’m fond
enough of him, God knows! But, begging your pardon, sir” (with a pull
at his forelock), “would you mind holding that tin of yours a little
tighter? I’ve got to keep an eye on that as well as on ‘O. Paving,’ and
I just see’d that chap with the tall hat alooking at it suspicious.”

After this we separated. I retired into my corner, while Woodden took
his stand by the table, with one eye fixed on what he called the “O.
Paving” and the other on me and my tin case.

An odd fish truly, I thought to myself. Positive, the old woman;
Comparative, his master; Superlative, the orchid tribe. Those were his
degrees of affection. Honest and brave and a good fellow though, I bet.

The sale languished. There were so many lots of one particular sort of
dried orchid that buyers could not be found for them at a reasonable
price, and many had to be bought in. At length the genial Mr. Primrose
in the rostrum addressed the audience.

“Gentlemen,” he said, “I quite understand that you didn’t come here
to-day to buy a rather poor lot of Cattleya Mossiæ. You came to buy,
or to bid for, or to see sold the most wonderful Odontoglossum that has
ever been flowered in this country, the property of a famous firm of
importers whom I congratulate upon their good fortune in having obtained
such a gem. Gentlemen, this miraculous flower ought to adorn a royal
greenhouse. But there it is, to be taken away by whoever will pay the
most for it, for I am directed to see that it will be sold without
reserve. Now, I think,” he added, running his eye over the company,
“that most of our great collectors are represented in this room to-day.
It is true that I do not see that spirited and liberal young orchidist,
Mr. Somers, but he has left his worthy head-gardener, Mr. Woodden, than
whom there is no finer judge of an orchid in England” (here Woodden
rocked violently) “to bid for him, as I hope, for the glorious flower of
which I have been speaking. Now, as it is exactly half-past one, we will
proceed to business. Smith, hand the ‘Odontoglossum Pavo’ round, that
everyone may inspect its beauties, and be careful you don’t let it fall.
Gentlemen, I must ask you not to touch it or to defile its purity with
tobacco smoke. Eight perfect flowers in bloom, gentlemen, and four--no,
five more to open. A strong plant in perfect health, six pseudo-bulbs
with leaves, and three without. Two black leads which I am advised
can be separated off at the proper time. Now, what bids for the
‘Odontoglossum Pavo.’ Ah! I wonder who will have the honour of becoming
the owner of this perfect, this unmatched production of Nature. Thank
you, sir--three hundred. Four. Five. Six. Seven in three places. Eight.
Nine. Ten. Oh! gentlemen, let us get on a little faster. Thank you,
sir--fifteen. Sixteen. It is against you, Mr Woodden. Ah! thank you,
seventeen.”

There came a pause in the fierce race for “O. Pavo,” which I occupied in
reducing seventeen hundred shillings to pounds sterling.

My word! I thought to myself, £85 is a goodish price to pay for one
plant, however rare. Woodden is acting up to his instructions with a
vengeance.

The pleading voice of Mr. Primrose broke in upon my meditations.

“Gentlemen, gentlemen!” he said, “surely you are not going to allow the
most wondrous production of the floral world, on which I repeat there
is no reserve, to be knocked down at this miserable figure. Come, come.
Well, if I must, I must, though after such a disgrace I shall get no
sleep to-night. One,” and his hammer fell for the first time. “Think,
gentlemen, upon my position, think what the eminent owners, who with
their usual delicacy have stayed away, will say to me when I am obliged
to tell them the disgraceful truth. Two,” and his hammer fell a second
time. “Smith, hold up that flower. Let the company see it. Let them know
what they are losing.”

Smith held up the flower at which everybody glared. The little ivory
hammer circled round Mr. Primrose’s head. It was about to fall, when a
quiet man with a long beard who hitherto had not joined in the bidding,
lifted his head and said softly:

“Eighteen hundred.”

“Ah!” exclaimed Mr. Primrose, “I thought so. I thought that the owner of
the greatest collection in England would not see this treasure slip from
his grasp without a struggle. Against you, Mr. Woodden.”

“Nineteen, sir,” said Woodden in a stony voice.

“Two thousand,” echoed the gentleman with the long beard.

“Twenty-one hundred,” said Woodden.

“That’s right, Mr. Woodden,” cried Mr. Primrose, “you are indeed
representing your principal worthily. I feel sure that you do not mean
to stop for a few miserable pounds.”

“Not if I knows it,” ejaculated Woodden. “I has my orders and I acts up
to them.”

“Twenty-two hundred,” said Long-beard.

“Twenty-three,” echoed Woodden.

“Oh, damn!” shouted Long-beard and rushed from the room.

“‘Odontoglossum Pavo’ is going for twenty-three hundred, only
twenty-tree hundred,” cried the auctioneer. “Any advance on twenty-three
hundred? What? None? Then I must do my duty. One. Two. For the last
time--no advance? Three. Gone to Mr. Woodden, bidding for his principal,
Mr. Somers.”

The hammer fell with a sharp tap, and at this moment my young friend
sauntered into the room.

“Well, Woodden,” he said, “have they put the ‘Pavo’ up yet?”

“It’s up and it’s down, sir. I’ve bought him right enough.”

“The deuce you have! What did it fetch?”

Woodden scratched his head.

“I don’t rightly know, sir, never was good at figures, not having much
book learning, but it’s twenty-three something.”

“£23? No, it would have brought more than that. By Jingo! it must be
£230. That’s pretty stiff, but still, it may be worth it.”

At this moment Mr. Primrose, who, leaning over his desk, was engaged in
animated conversation with an excited knot of orchid fanciers, looked
up:

“Oh! there you are, Mr. Somers,” he said. “In the name of all this
company let me congratulate you on having become the owner of the
matchless ‘Odontoglossum Pavo’ for what, under all the circumstances, I
consider the quite moderate price of £2,300.”

Really that young man took it very well. He shivered slightly and turned
a little pale, that is all. Woodden rocked to and fro like a tree about
to fall. I and my tin box collapsed together in the corner. Yes, I was
so surprised that my legs seemed to give way under me. People began to
talk, but above the hum of the conversation I heard young Somers say in
a low voice:

“Woodden, you’re a born fool.” Also the answer: “That’s what my mother
always told me, master, and she ought to know if anyone did. But what’s
wrong now? I obeyed orders and bought ‘O. Paving.’”

“Yes. Don’t bother, my good fellow, it’s my fault, not yours. I’m the
born fool. But heavens above! how am I to face this?” Then, recovering
himself, he strolled up to the rostrum and said a few words to the
auctioneer. Mr. Primrose nodded, and I heard him answer:

“Oh, that will be all right, sir, don’t bother. We can’t expect an
account like this to be settled in a minute. A month hence will do.”

Then he went on with the sale.




CHAPTER III

                      SIR ALEXANDER AND STEPHEN

It was just at this moment that I saw standing by me a fine-looking,
stout man with a square, grey beard and a handsome, but not very
good-tempered face. He was looking about him as one does who finds
himself in a place to which he is not accustomed.

“Perhaps you could tell me, sir,” he said to me, “whether a gentleman
called Mr. Somers is in this room. I am rather short-sighted and there
are a great many people.”

“Yes,” I answered, “he has just bought the wonderful orchid called
‘Odontoglossum Pavo.’ That is what they are all talking about.”

“Oh, has he? Has he indeed? And pray what did he pay for the article?”

“A huge sum,” I answered. “I thought it was two thousand three hundred
shillings, but it appears it was £2,300.”

The handsome, elderly gentleman grew very red in the face, so red that
I thought he was going to have a fit. For a few moments he breathed
heavily.

“A rival collector,” I thought to myself, and went on with the story
which, it occurred to me, might interest him.

“You see, the young gentleman was called away to an interview with his
father. I heard him instruct his gardener, a man named Woodden, to buy
the plant at any price.”

“At any price! Indeed. Very interesting; continue, sir.”

“Well, the gardener bought it, that’s all, after tremendous competition.
Look, there he is packing it up. Whether his master meant him to go as
far as he did I rather doubt. But here he comes. If you know him----”

The youthful Mr. Somers, looking a little pale and _distrait_, strolled
up apparently to speak to me; his hands were in his pockets and an
unlighted cigar was in his mouth. His eyes fell upon the elderly
gentleman, a sight that caused him to shape his lips as though to
whistle and drop the cigar.

“Hullo, father,” he said in his pleasant voice. “I got your message
and have been looking for you, but never thought that I should find you
here. Orchids aren’t much in your line, are they?”

“Didn’t you, indeed!” replied his parent in a choked voice. “No, I
haven’t much use for--this stinking rubbish,” and he waved his umbrella
at the beautiful flowers. “But it seems that you have, Stephen.
This little gentlemen here tells me you have just bought a very fine
specimen.”

“I must apologize,” I broke in, addressing Mr. Somers. “I had not the
slightest idea that this--big gentleman,” here the son smiled faintly,
“was your intimate relation.”

“Oh! pray don’t, Mr. Quatermain. Why should you not speak of what will
be in all the papers. Yes, father, I have bought a very fine specimen,
the finest known, or at least Woodden has on my behalf, while I was
hunting for you, which comes to the same thing.”

“Indeed, Stephen, and what did you pay for this flower? I have heard a
figure, but think that there must be some mistake.”

“I don’t know what you heard, father, but it seems to have been knocked
down to me at £2,300. It’s a lot more than I can find, indeed, and I was
going to ask you to lend me the money for the sake of the family credit,
if not for my own. But we can talk about that afterwards.”

“Yes, Stephen, we can talk of that afterwards. In fact, as there is no
time like the present, we will talk of it now. Come to my office.
And, sir” (this was to me) “as you seem to know something of the
circumstances, I will ask you to come also; and you too, Blockhead”
 (this was to Woodden, who just then approached with the plant).

Now, of course, I might have refused an invitation conveyed in such a
manner. But, as a matter of fact, I didn’t. I wanted to see the thing
out; also to put in a word for young Somers, if I got the chance. So
we all departed from that room, followed by a titter of amusement from
those of the company who had overheard the conversation. In the street
stood a splendid carriage and pair; a powdered footman opened its door.
With a ferocious bow Sir Alexander motioned to me to enter, which I did,
taking one of the back seats as it gave more room for my tin case. Then
came Mr. Stephen, then Woodden bundled in holding the precious plant
in front of him like a wand of office, and last of all, Sir Alexander,
having seen us safe, entered also.

“Where to, sir?” asked the footman.

“Office,” he snapped, and we started.

Four disappointed relatives in a funeral coach could not have been more
silent. Our feelings seemed to be too deep for words. Sir Alexander,
however, did make one remark and to me. It was:

“If you will remove the corner of that infernal tin box of yours from my
ribs I shall be obliged to you, sir.”

“Your pardon,” I exclaimed, and in my efforts to be accommodating,
dropped it on his toe. I will not repeat the remark he made, but I may
explain that he was gouty. His son suddenly became afflicted with a
sense of the absurdity of the situation. He kicked me on the shin, he
even dared to wink, and then began to swell visibly with suppressed
laughter. I was in agony, for if he had exploded I do not know what
would have happened. Fortunately, at this moment the carriage stopped at
the door of a fine office. Without waiting for the footman Mr. Stephen
bundled out and vanished into the building--I suppose to laugh in
safety. Then I descended with the tin case; then, by command, followed
Woodden with the flower, and lastly came Sir Alexander.

“Stop here,” he said to the coachman; “I shan’t be long. Be so good as
to follow me, Mr. What’s-your-name, and you, too, Gardener.”

We followed, and found ourselves in a big room luxuriously furnished
in a heavy kind of way. Sir Alexander Somers, I should explain, was an
enormously opulent bullion-broker, whatever a bullion-broker may be. In
this room Mr. Stephen was already established; indeed, he was seated on
the window-sill swinging his leg.

“Now we are alone and comfortable,” growled Sir Alexander with sarcastic
ferocity.

“As the boa-constrictor said to the rabbit in the cage,” I remarked.

I did not mean to say it, but I had grown nervous, and the thought leapt
from my lips in words. Again Mr. Stephen began to swell. He turned his
face to the window as though to contemplate the wall beyond, but I
could see his shoulders shaking. A dim light of intelligence shone in
Woodden’s pale eyes. About three minutes later the joke got home. He
gurgled something about boa-constrictors and rabbits and gave a short,
loud laugh. As for Sir Alexander, he merely said:

“I did not catch your remark, sir, would you be so good as to repeat
it?”

As I appeared unwilling to accept the invitation, he went on:

“Perhaps, then, you would repeat what you told me in that sale-room?”

“Why should I?” I asked. “I spoke quite clearly and you seemed to
understand.”

“You are right,” replied Sir Alexander; “to waste time is useless.” He
wheeled round on Woodden, who was standing near the door still holding
the paper-wrapped plant in front of him. “Now, Blockhead,” he shouted,
“tell me why you brought that thing.”

Woodden made no answer, only rocked a little. Sir Alexander reiterated
his command. This time Woodden set the plant upon a table and replied:

“If you’re aspeaking to me, sir, that baint my name, and what’s more, if
you calls me so again, I’ll punch your head, whoever you be,” and very
deliberately he rolled up the sleeves on his brawny arms, a sight at
which I too began to swell with inward merriment.

“Look here, father,” said Mr. Stephen, stepping forward. “What’s the use
of all this? The thing’s perfectly plain. I did tell Woodden to buy the
plant at any price. What is more I gave him a written authority which
was passed up to the auctioneer. There’s no getting out of it. It
is true it never occurred to me that it would go for anything like
£2,300--the odd £300 was more my idea, but Woodden only obeyed his
orders, and ought not to be abused for doing so.”

“There’s what I call a master worth serving,” remarked Woodden.

“Very well, young man,” said Sir Alexander, “you have purchased this
article. Will you be so good as to tell me how you propose it should be
paid for.”

“I propose, father, that you should pay for it,” replied Mr. Stephen
sweetly. “Two thousand three hundred pounds, or ten times that amount,
would not make you appreciably poorer. But if, as is probable, you take
a different view, then I propose to pay for it myself. As you know a
certain sum of money came to me under my mother’s will in which you have
only a life interest. I shall raise the amount upon that security--or
otherwise.”

If Sir Alexander had been angry before, now he became like a mad bull
in a china shop. He pranced round the room; he used language that should
not pass the lips of any respectable merchant of bullion; in short, he
did everything that a person in his position ought not to do. When he
was tired he rushed to a desk, tore a cheque from a book and filled it
in for a sum of £2,300 to bearer, which cheque he blotted, crumpled up
and literally threw at the head of his son.

“You worthless, idle young scoundrel,” he bellowed. “I put you in this
office here that you may learn respectable and orderly habits and in due
course succeed to a very comfortable business. What happens? You don’t
take a ha’porth of interest in bullion-broking, a subject of which I
believe you to remain profoundly ignorant. You don’t even spend your
money, or rather my money, upon any gentleman-like vice, such as
horse-racing, or cards, or even--well, never mind. No, you take to
flowers, miserable, beastly flowers, things that a cow eats and clerks
grow in back gardens.”

“An ancient and Arcadian taste. Adam is supposed to have lived in a
garden,” I ventured to interpolate.

“Perhaps you would ask your friend with the stubbly hair to remain
quiet,” snorted Sir Alexander. “I was about to add, although for the
sake of my name I meet your debts, that I have had enough of this kind
of thing. I disinherit you, or will do if I live till 4 p.m. when the
lawyer’s office shuts, for thank God! there are no entailed estates, and
I dismiss you from the firm. You can go and earn your living in any
way you please, by orchid-hunting if you like.” He paused, gasping for
breath.

“Is that all, father?” asked Mr. Stephen, producing a cigar from his
pocket.

“No, it isn’t, you cold-blooded young beggar. That house you occupy at
Twickenham is mine. You will be good enough to clear out of it; I wish
to take possession.”

“I suppose, father, I am entitled to a week’s notice like any other
tenant,” said Mr. Stephen, lighting the cigar. “In fact,” he added, “if
you answer no, I think I shall ask you to apply for an ejection order.
You will understand that I have arrangements to make before taking a
fresh start in life.”

“Oh! curse your cheek, you--you--cucumber!” raged the infuriated
merchant prince. Then an inspiration came to him. “You think more of an
ugly flower than of your father, do you? Well, at least I’ll put an end
to that,” and he made a dash at the plant on the table with the evident
intention of destroying the same.

But the watching Woodden saw. With a kind of lurch he interposed his big
frame between Sir Alexander and the object of his wrath.

“Touch ‘O. Paving’ and I knocks yer down,” he drawled out.

Sir Alexander looked at “O. Paving,” then he looked at Woodden’s
leg-of-mutton fist, and--changed his mind.

“Curse ‘O. Paving,’” he said, “and everyone who has to do with it,” and
swung out of the room, banging the door behind him.

“Well, that’s over,” said Mr. Stephen gently, as he fanned himself with
a pocket-handkerchief. “Quite exciting while it lasted, wasn’t it, Mr.
Quatermain--but I have been there before, so to speak. And now what do
you say to some luncheon? Pym’s is close by, and they have very good
oysters. Only I think we’ll drive round by the bank and hand in this
cheque. When he’s angry my parent is capable of anything. He might even
stop it. Woodden, get off down to Twickenham with ‘O. Pavo.’ Keep it
warm, for it feels rather like frost. Put it in the stove for to-night
and give it a little, just a little tepid water, but be careful not to
touch the flower. Take a four-wheeled cab, it’s slow but safe, and mind
you keep the windows up and don’t smoke. I shall be home for dinner.”

Woodden pulled his forelock, seized the pot in his left hand, and
departed with his right fist raised--I suppose in case Sir Alexander
should be waiting for him round the corner.

Then we departed also and, after stopping for a minute at the bank
to pay in the cheque, which I noted, notwithstanding its amount, was
accepted without comment, ate oysters in a place too crowded to allow of
conversation.

“Mr. Quatermain,” said my host, “it is obvious that we cannot talk here,
and much less look at that orchid of yours, which I want to study at
leisure. Now, for a week or so at any rate I have a roof over my head,
and in short, will you be my guest for a night or two? I know nothing
about you, and of me you only know that I am the disinherited son of a
father, to whom I have failed to give satisfaction. Still it is possible
that we might pass a few pleasant hours together talking of flowers and
other things; that is, if you have no previous engagement.”

“I have none,” I answered. “I am only a stranger from South Africa
lodging at an hotel. If you will give me time to call for my bag, I will
pass the night at your house with pleasure.”

By the aid of Mr. Somers’ smart dog-cart, which was waiting at a city
mews, we reached Twickenham while there was still half an hour of
daylight. The house, which was called Verbena Lodge, was small, a
square, red-brick building of the early Georgian period, but the gardens
covered quite an acre of ground and were very beautiful, or must have
been so in summer. Into the greenhouse we did not enter, because it was
too late to see the flowers. Also, just when we came to them, Woodden
arrived in his four-wheeled cab and departed with his master to see to
the housing of “O. Pavo.”

Then came dinner, a very pleasant meal. My host had that day been turned
out upon the world, but he did not allow this circumstance to interfere
with his spirits in the least. Also he was evidently determined to
enjoy its good things while they lasted, for his champagne and port were
excellent.

“You see, Mr. Quatermain,” he said, “it’s just as well we had the row
which has been boiling up for a long while. My respected father has made
so much money that he thinks I should go and do likewise. Now, I don’t
see it. I like flowers, especially orchids, and I hate bullion-broking.
To me the only decent places in London are that sale-room where we met
and the Horticultural Gardens.”

“Yes,” I answered rather doubtfully, “but the matter seems a little
serious. Your parent was very emphatic as to his intentions, and after
this kind of thing,” and I pointed to the beautiful silver and the port,
“how will you like roughing it in a hard world?”

“Don’t think I shall mind a bit; it would be rather a pleasant change.
Also, even if my father doesn’t alter his mind, as he may, for he likes
me at bottom because I resemble my dear mother, things ain’t so very
bad. I have got some money that she left me, £6,000 or £7,000, and I’ll
sell that ‘Odontoglossum Pavo’ for what it will fetch to Sir Joshua
Tredgold--he was the man with the long beard who you tell me ran up
Woodden to over £2,000--or failing him to someone else. I’ll write
about it to-night. I don’t think I have any debts to speak of, for the
Governor has been allowing me £3,000 a year, at least that is my share
of the profits paid to me in return for my bullion-broking labours, and
except flowers, I have no expensive tastes. So the devil take the past,
here’s to the future and whatever it may bring,” and he polished off the
glass of port he held and laughed in his jolly fashion.

Really he was a most attractive young man, a little reckless, it is
true, but then recklessness and youth mix well, like brandy and soda.

I echoed the toast and drank off my port, for I like a good glass of
wine when I can get it, as would anyone who has had to live for months
on rotten water, although I admit that agrees with me better than the
port.

“Now, Mr. Quatermain,” he went on, “if you have done, light your pipe
and let’s go into the other room and study that Cypripedium of yours. I
shan’t sleep to-night unless I see it again first. Stop a bit, though,
we’ll get hold of that old ass, Woodden, before he turns in.”

“Woodden,” said his master, when the gardener had arrived, “this
gentleman, Mr. Quatermain, is going to show you an orchid that is ten
times finer than ‘O. Pavo!’”

“Beg pardon, sir,” answered Woodden, “but if Mr. Quatermain says that,
he lies. It ain’t in Nature; it don’t bloom nowhere.”

I opened the case and revealed the golden Cypripedium. Woodden stared at
it and rocked. Then he stared again and felt his head as though to make
sure it was on his shoulders. Then he gasped.

“Well, if that there flower baint made up, it’s a MASTER ONE! If I could
see that there flower ablowing on the plant I’d die happy.”

“Woodden, stop talking, and sit down,” exclaimed his master. “Yes,
there, where you can look at the flower. Now, Mr. Quatermain, will
you tell us the story of that orchid from beginning to end. Of course
omitting its habitat if you like, for it isn’t fair to ask that secret.
Woodden can be trusted to hold his tongue, and so can I.”

I remarked that I was sure they could, and for the next half-hour talked
almost without interruption, keeping nothing back and explaining that
I was anxious to find someone who would finance an expedition to search
for this particular plant; as I believed, the only one of its sort that
existed in the world.

“How much will it cost?” asked Mr. Somers.

“I lay it at £2,000,” I answered. “You see, we must have plenty of men
and guns and stores, also trade goods and presents.”

“I call that cheap. But supposing, Mr. Quatermain, that the expedition
proves successful and the plant is secured, what then?”

“Then I propose that Brother John, who found it and of whom I have told
you, should take one-third of whatever it might sell for, that I as
captain of the expedition should take one-third, and that whoever finds
the necessary money should take the remaining third.”

“Good! That’s settled.”

“What’s settled?” I asked.

“Why, that we should divide in the proportions you named, only I bargain
to be allowed to take my whack in kind--I mean in plant, and to have the
first option of purchasing the rest of the plant at whatever value may
be agreed upon.”

“But, Mr. Somers, do you mean that you wish to find £2,000 and make this
expedition in person?”

“Of course I do. I thought you understood that. That is, if you will
have me. Your old friend, the lunatic, you and I will together seek for
and find this golden flower. I say that’s settled.”

On the morrow accordingly, it was settled with the help of a document,
signed in duplicate by both of us.

Before these arrangements were finally concluded, however, I insisted
that Mr. Somers should meet my late companion, Charlie Scroope, when
I was not present, in order that the latter might give him a full
and particular report concerning myself. Apparently the interview
was satisfactory, at least so I judged from the very cordial and even
respectful manner in which young Somers met me after it was over. Also I
thought it my duty to explain to him with much clearness in the presence
of Scroope as a witness, the great dangers of such an enterprise as that
on which he proposed to embark. I told him straight out that he must be
prepared to find his death in it from starvation, fever, wild beasts or
at the hands of savages, while success was quite problematical and very
likely would not be attained.

“_You_ are taking these risks,” he said.

“Yes,” I answered, “but they are incident to the rough trade I follow,
which is that of a hunter and explorer. Moreover, my youth is past,
and I have gone through experiences and bereavements of which you know
nothing, that cause me to set a very slight value on life. I care little
whether I die or continue in the world for some few added years. Lastly,
the excitement of adventure has become a kind of necessity for me. I
do not think that I could live in England for very long. Also I’m a
fatalist. I believe that when my time comes I must go, that this hour is
foreordained and that nothing I can do will either hasten or postpone it
by one moment. Your circumstances are different. You are quite young.
If you stay here and approach your father in a proper spirit, I have
no doubt but that he will forget all the rough words he said to you the
other day, for which indeed you know you gave him some provocation. Is
it worth while throwing up such prospects and undertaking such
dangers for the chance of finding a rare flower? I say this to my own
disadvantage, since I might find it hard to discover anyone else who
would risk £2,000 upon such a venture, but I do urge you to weigh my
words.”

Young Somers looked at me for a little while, then he broke into one of
his hearty laughs and exclaimed, “Whatever else you may be, Mr. Allan
Quatermain, you are a gentleman. No bullion-broker in the City could
have put the matter more fairly in the teeth of his own interests.”

“Thank you,” I said.

“For the rest,” he went on, “I too am tired of England and want to
see the world. It isn’t the golden Cypripedium that I seek, although I
should like to win it well enough. That’s only a symbol. What I seek are
adventure and romance. Also, like you I am a fatalist. God chose His own
time to send us here, and I presume that He will choose His own time to
take us away again. So I leave the matter of risks to Him.”

“Yes, Mr. Somers,” I replied rather solemnly. “You may find adventure
and romance, there are plenty of both in Africa. Or you may find a
nameless grave in some fever-haunted swamp. Well, you have chosen, and I
like your spirit.”

Still I was so little satisfied about this business, that a week or so
before we sailed, after much consideration, I took it upon myself to
write a letter to Sir Alexander Somers, in which I set forth the whole
matter as clearly as I could, not blinking the dangerous nature of our
undertaking. In conclusion, I asked him whether he thought it wise to
allow his only son to accompany such an expedition, mainly because of a
not very serious quarrel with himself.

As no answer came to this letter I went on with our preparations.
There was money in plenty, since the re-sale of “O. Pavo” to Sir Joshua
Tredgold, at some loss, had been satisfactorily carried out, which
enabled me to invest in all things needful with a cheerful heart. Never
before had I been provided with such an outfit as that which preceded us
to the ship.

At length the day of departure came. We stood on the platform at
Paddington waiting for the Dartmouth train to start, for in those days
the African mail sailed from that port. A minute or two before the train
left, as we were preparing to enter our carriage I caught sight of
a face that I seemed to recognise, the owner of which was evidently
searching for someone in the crowd. It was that of Briggs, Sir
Alexander’s clerk, whom I had met in the sale-room.

“Mr. Briggs,” I said as he passed me, “are you looking for Mr. Somers?
If so, he is in here.”

The clerk jumped into the compartment and handed a letter to Mr. Somers.
Then he emerged again and waited. Somers read the letter and tore off a
blank sheet from the end of it, on which he hastily wrote some words. He
passed it to me to give to Briggs, and I could not help seeing what was
written. It was: “Too late now. God bless you, my dear father. I hope
we may meet again. If not, try to think kindly of your troublesome and
foolish son, Stephen.”

In another minute the train had started.

“By the way,” he said, as we steamed out of the station, “I have heard
from my father, who enclosed this for you.”

I opened the envelope, which was addressed in a bold, round hand that
seemed to me typical of the writer, and read as follows:


 “My Dear Sir,--I appreciate the motives which caused you to write
  to me and I thank you very heartily for your letter, which shows
  me that you are a man of discretion and strict honour. As you
  surmise, the expedition on which my son has entered is not one
  that commends itself to me as prudent. Of the differences between
  him and myself you are aware, for they came to a climax in your
  presence. Indeed, I feel that I owe you an apology for having
  dragged you into an unpleasant family quarrel. Your letter only
  reached me to-day having been forwarded to my place in the country
  from my office. I should have at once come to town, but
  unfortunately I am laid up with an attack of gout which makes it
  impossible for me to stir. Therefore, the only thing I can do is
  to write to my son hoping that the letter which I send by a
  special messenger will reach him in time and avail to alter his
  determination to undertake this journey. Here I may add that
  although I have differed and do differ from him on various points,
  I still have a deep affection for my son and earnestly desire his
  welfare. The prospect of any harm coming to him is one upon which
  I cannot bear to dwell.

 “Now I am aware that any change of his plans at this eleventh hour
  would involve you in serious loss and inconvenience. I beg to
  inform you formally, therefore, that in this event I will make
  good everything and will in addition write off the £2,000 which I
  understand he has invested in your joint venture. It may be,
  however, that my son, who has in him a vein of my own obstinacy,
  will refuse to change his mind. In that event, under a Higher
  Power I can only commend him to your care and beg that you will
  look after him as though he were your own child. I can ask and you
  can do no more. Tell him to write me as opportunity offers, as
  perhaps you will too; also that, although I hate the sight of
  them, I will look after the flowers which he has left at the house
  at Twickenham.--

                        “Your obliged servant, ALEXANDER SOMERS.”


This letter touched me much, and indeed made me feel very uncomfortable.
Without a word I handed it to my companion, who read it through
carefully.

“Nice of him about the orchids,” he said. “My dad has a good heart,
although he lets his temper get the better of him, having had his own
way all his life.”

“Well, what will you do?” I asked.

“Go on, of course. I’ve put my hand to the plough and I am not going
to turn back. I should be a cur if I did, and what’s more, whatever
he might say he’d think none the better of me. So please don’t try to
persuade me, it would be no good.”

For quite a while afterwards young Somers seemed to be comparatively
depressed, a state of mind that in his case was rare indeed. At last,
he studied the wintry landscape through the carriage window and
said nothing. By degrees, however, he recovered, and when we reached
Dartmouth was as cheerful as ever, a mood that I could not altogether
share.

Before we sailed I wrote to Sir Alexander telling him exactly how things
stood, and so I think did his son, though he never showed me the letter.

At Durban, just as we were about to start up country, I received an
answer from him, sent by some boat that followed us very closely. In
it he said that he quite understood the position, and whatever happened
would attribute no blame to me, whom he should always regard with
friendly feelings. He told me that, in the event of any difficulty or
want of money, I was to draw on him for whatever might be required, and
that he had advised the African Bank to that effect. Further, he added,
that at least his son had shown grit in this matter, for which he
respected him.

And now for a long while I must bid good-bye to Sir Alexander Somers and
all that has to do with England.




CHAPTER IV

                           MAVOVO AND HANS

We arrived safely at Durban at the beginning of March and took up our
quarters at my house on the Berea, where I expected that Brother John
would be awaiting us. But no Brother John was to be found. The old, lame
Griqua, Jack, who looked after the place for me and once had been one of
my hunters, said that shortly after I went away in the ship, Dogeetah,
as he called him, had taken his tin box and his net and walked off
inland, he knew not where, leaving, as he declared, no message or letter
behind him. The cases full of butterflies and dried plants were also
gone, but these, I found he had shipped to some port in America, by a
sailing vessel bound for the United States which chanced to put in at
Durban for food and water. As to what had become of the man himself I
could get no clue. He had been seen at Maritzburg and, according to some
Kaffirs whom I knew, afterwards on the borders of Zululand, where, so
far as I could learn, he vanished into space.

This, to say the least of it, was disconcerting, and a question arose
as to what was to be done. Brother John was to have been our guide. He
alone knew the Mazitu people; he alone had visited the borders of the
mysterious Pongo-land, I scarcely felt inclined to attempt to reach that
country without his aid.

When a fortnight had gone by and still there were no signs of him,
Stephen and I held a solemn conference. I pointed out the difficulties
and dangers of the situation to him and suggested that, under the
circumstances, it might be wise to give up this wild orchid-chase and go
elephant-hunting instead in a certain part of Zululand, where in those
days these animals were still abundant.

He was inclined to agree with me, since the prospect of killing
elephants had attractions for him.

“And yet,” I said, after reflection, “it’s curious, but I never remember
making a successful trip after altering plans at the last moment, that
is, unless one was driven to it.”

“I vote we toss up,” said Somers; “it gives Providence a chance. Now
then, heads for the Golden Cyp, and tails for the elephants.”

He spun a half-crown into the air. It fell and rolled under a great,
yellow-wood chest full of curiosities that I had collected, which
it took all our united strength to move. We dragged it aside and not
without some excitement, for really a good deal hung upon the chance, I
lit a match and peered into the shadow. There in the dust lay the coin.

“What is it?” I asked of Somers, who was stretched on his stomach on the
chest.

“Orchid--I mean head,” he answered. “Well, that’s settled, so we needn’t
bother any more.”

The next fortnight was a busy time for me. As it happened there was a
schooner in the bay of about one hundred tons burden which belonged to
a Portuguese trader named Delgado, who dealt in goods that he carried
to the various East African ports and Madagascar. He was a
villainous-looking person whom I suspected of having dealings with the
slave traders, who were very numerous and a great power in those days,
if indeed he were not one himself. But as he was going to Kilwa whence
we proposed to start inland, I arranged to make use of him to carry our
party and the baggage. The bargain was not altogether easy to strike for
two reasons. First, he did not appear to be anxious that we should hunt
in the districts at the back of Kilwa, where he assured me there was no
game, and secondly, he said that he wanted to sail at once. However, I
overcame his objections with an argument he could not resist--namely,
money, and in the end he agreed to postpone his departure for fourteen
days.

Then I set about collecting our men, of whom I had made up my mind there
must not be less than twenty. Already I had sent messengers summoning
to Durban from Zululand and the upper districts of Natal various hunters
who had accompanied me on other expeditions. To the number of a dozen or
so they arrived in due course. I have always had the good fortune to be
on the best of terms with my Kaffirs, and where I went they were ready
to go without asking any questions. The man whom I had selected to be
their captain under me was a Zulu of the name of Mavovo. He was a
short fellow, past middle age, with an enormous chest. His strength was
proverbial; indeed, it was said that he could throw an ox by the horns,
and myself I have seen him hold down the head of a wounded buffalo that
had fallen, until I could come up and shoot it.

When I first knew Mavovo he was a petty chief and witch doctor in
Zululand. Like myself, he had fought for the Prince Umbelazi in the
great battle of the Tugela, a crime which Cetewayo never forgave him.
About a year afterwards he got warning that he had been smelt out as a
wizard and was going to be killed. He fled with two of his wives and a
child. The slayers overtook them before he could reach the Natal border,
and stabbed the elder wife and the child of the second wife. They were
four men, but, made mad by the sight, Mavovo turned on them and killed
them all. Then, with the remaining wife, cut to pieces as he was, he
crept to the river and through it to Natal. Not long after this wife
died also; it was said from grief at the loss of her child. Mavovo did
not marry again, perhaps because he was now a man without means, for
Cetewayo had taken all his cattle; also he was made ugly by an assegai
wound which had cut off his right nostril. Shortly after the death of
his second wife he sought me out and told me he was a chief without a
kraal and wished to become my hunter. So I took him on, a step which I
never had any cause to regret, since although morose and at times given
to the practice of uncanny arts, he was a most faithful servant and
brave as a lion, or rather as a buffalo, for a lion is not always brave.

Another man whom I did not send for, but who came, was an old Hottentot
named Hans, with whom I had been more or less mixed up all my life.
When I was a boy he was my father’s servant in the Cape Colony and my
companion in some of those early wars. Also he shared some very terrible
adventures with me which I have detailed in the history I have written
of my first wife, Marie Marais. For instance, he and I were the only
persons who escaped from the massacre of Retief and his companions by
the Zulu king, Dingaan. In the subsequent campaigns, including the
Battle of the Blood River, he fought at my side and ultimately received
a good share of captured cattle. After this he retired and set up a
native store at a place called Pinetown, about fifteen miles out of
Durban. Here I am afraid he got into bad ways and took to drink more or
less; also to gambling. At any rate, he lost most of his property,
so much of it indeed that he scarcely knew which way to turn. Thus it
happened that one evening when I went out of the house where I had been
making up my accounts, I saw a yellow-faced white-haired old fellow
squatted on the verandah smoking a pipe made out of a corn-cob.

“Good day, Baas,” he said, “here am I, Hans.”

“So I see,” I answered, rather coldly. “And what are you doing here,
Hans? How can you spare time from your drinking and gambling at Pinetown
to visit me here, Hans, after I have not seen you for three years?”

“Baas, the gambling is finished, because I have nothing more to stake,
and the drinking is done too, because but one bottle of Cape Smoke makes
me feel quite ill next morning. So now I only take water and as little
of that as I can, water and some tobacco to cover up its taste.”

“I am glad to hear it, Hans. If my father, the Predikant who baptised
you, were alive now, he would have much to say about your conduct as
indeed I have no doubt he will presently when you have gone into a
hole (i.e., a grave). For there in the hole he will be waiting for you,
Hans.”

“I know, I know, Baas. I have been thinking of that and it troubles me.
Your reverend father, the Predikant, will be very cross indeed with me
when I join him in the Place of Fires where he sits awaiting me. So I
wish to make my peace with him by dying well, and in your service, Baas.
I hear that the Baas is going on an expedition. I have come to accompany
the Baas.”

“To accompany me! Why, you are old, you are not worth five shillings a
month and your _scoff_ (food). You are a shrunken old brandy cask that
will not even hold water.”

Hans grinned right across his ugly face.

“Oh! Baas, I am old, but I am clever. All these years I have been
gathering wisdom. I am as full of it as a bee’s nest is with honey when
the summer is done. And, Baas, I can stop those leaks in the cask.”

“Hans, it is no good, I don’t want you. I am going into great danger. I
must have those about me whom I can trust.”

“Well, Baas, and who can be better trusted than Hans? Who warned you
of the attack of the Quabies on Maraisfontein, and so saved the life
of----”

“Hush!” I said.

“I understand. I will not speak the name. It is holy, not to be
mentioned. It is the name of one who stands with the white angels before
God; not to be mentioned by poor drunken Hans. Still, who stood at your
side in that great fight? Ah! it makes me young again to think of it,
when the roof burned; when the door was broken down; when we met the
Quabies on the spears; when you held the pistol to the head of the Holy
One whose name must not be mentioned, the Great One who knew how to die.
Oh! Baas, our lives are twisted up together like the creeper and the
tree, and where you go, there I must go also. Do not turn me away. I ask
no wages, only a bit of food and a handful of tobacco, and the light of
your face and a word now and again of the memories that belong to both
of us. I am still very strong. I can shoot well--well, Baas, who was it
that put it into your mind to aim at the tails of the vultures on the
Hill of Slaughter yonder in Zululand, and so saved the lives of all the
Boer people, and of her whose holy name must not be mentioned? Baas, you
will not turn me away?”

“No,” I answered, “you can come. But you will swear by the spirit of my
father, the Predikant, to touch no liquor on this journey.”

“I swear by his spirit and by that of the Holy One,” and he flung
himself forward on to his knees, took my hand and kissed it. Then he
rose and said in a matter-of-fact tone, “If the Baas can give me two
blankets, I shall thank him, also five shillings to buy some tobacco
and a new knife. Where are the Baas’s guns? I must go to oil them. I
beg that the Baas will take with him that little rifle which is named
_Intombi_ (Maiden), the one with which he shot the vultures on the Hill
of Slaughter, the one that killed the geese in the Goose Kloof when I
loaded for him and he won the great match against the Boer whom Dingaan
called Two-faces.”

“Good,” I said. “Here are the five shillings. You shall have the
blankets and a new gun and all things needful. You will find the guns in
the little back room and with them those of the Baas, my companion, who
also is your master. Go see to them.”

At length all was ready, the cases of guns, ammunition, medicines,
presents and food were on board the _Maria_. So were four donkeys that
I had bought in the hope that they would prove useful, either to ride
or as pack beasts. The donkey, be it remembered, and man are the only
animals which are said to be immune from the poisonous effects of the
bite of tsetse fly, except, of course, the wild game. It was our last
night at Durban, a very beautiful night of full moon at the end of
March, for the Portugee Delgado had announced his intention of sailing
on the following afternoon. Stephen Somers and I were seated on the
stoep smoking and talking things over.

“It is a strange thing,” I said, “that Brother John should never have
turned up. I know that he was set upon making this expedition, not only
for the sake of the orchid, but also for some other reason of which he
would not speak. I think that the old fellow must be dead.”

“Very likely,” answered Stephen (we had become intimate and I called him
Stephen now), “a man alone among savages might easily come to grief
and never be heard of again. Hark! What’s that?” and he pointed to some
gardenia bushes in the shadow of the house near by, whence came a sound
of something that moved.

“A dog, I expect, or perhaps it is Hans. He curls up in all sorts of
places near to where I may be. Hans, are you there?”

A figure arose from the gardenia bushes.

“_Ja_, I am here, Baas.”

“What are you doing, Hans?”

“I am doing what the dog does, Baas--watching my master.”

“Good,” I answered. Then an idea struck me. “Hans, you have heard of the
white Baas with the long beard whom the Kaffirs call Dogeetah?”

“I have heard of him and once I saw him, a few moons ago passing
through Pinetown. A Kaffir with him told me that he was going over the
Drakensberg to hunt for things that crawl and fly, being quite mad,
Baas.”

“Well, where is he now, Hans? He should have been here to travel with
us.”

“Am I a spirit that I can tell the Baas whither a white man has
wandered? Yet, stay. Mavovo may be able to tell. He is a great doctor,
he can see through distance, and even now, this very night his Snake
of divination has entered into him and he is looking into the future,
yonder, behind the house. I saw him form the circle.”

I translated what Hans said to Stephen, for he had been talking in
Dutch, then asked him if he would like to see some Kaffir magic.

“Of course,” he answered, “but it’s all bosh, isn’t it?”

“Oh, yes, all bosh, or so most people say,” I answered evasively.
“Still, sometimes these _Inyangas_ tell one strange things.”

Then, led by Hans, we crept round the house to where there was a
five-foot stone wall at the back of the stable. Beyond this wall, within
the circle of some huts where my Kaffirs lived, was an open space with
an ant-heap floor where they did their cooking. Here, facing us, sat
Mavovo, while in a ring around him were all the hunters who were to
accompany us; also Jack, the lame Griqua, and the two house-boys. In
front of Mavovo burned a number of little wood fires. I counted them and
found that there were fourteen, which, I reflected, was the exact
number of our hunters, plus ourselves. One of the hunters was engaged
in feeding these fires with little bits of stick and handfuls of
dried grass so as to keep them burning brightly. The others sat round
perfectly silent and watched with rapt attention. Mavovo himself looked
like a man who is asleep. He was crouched on his haunches with his big
head resting almost upon his knees. About his middle was a snake-skin,
and round his neck an ornament that appeared to be made of human teeth.
On his right side lay a pile of feathers from the wings of vultures, and
on his left a little heap of silver money--I suppose the fees paid by
the hunters for whom he was divining.

After we had watched him for some while from our shelter behind the wall
he appeared to wake out of his sleep. First he muttered; then he looked
up to the moon and seemed to say a prayer of which I could not catch
the words. Next he shuddered three times convulsively and exclaimed in a
clear voice:

“My Snake has come. It is within me. Now I can hear, now I can see.”

Three of the little fires, those immediately in front of him, were
larger than the others. He took up his bundle of vultures’ feathers,
selected one with care, held it towards the sky, then passed it through
the flame of the centre one of the three fires, uttering as he did so,
my native name, Macumazana. Withdrawing it from the flame he examined
the charred edges of the feather very carefully, a proceeding that
caused a cold shiver to go down my back, for I knew well that he was
inquiring of his “Spirit” what would be my fate upon this expedition.
How it answered, I cannot tell, for he laid the feather down and
took another, with which he went through the same process. This time,
however, the name he called out was Mwamwazela, which in its shortened
form of Wazela, was the Kaffir appellation that the natives had given
to Stephen Somers. It means a Smile, and no doubt was selected for him
because of his pleasant, smiling countenance.

Having passed it through the right-hand fire of the three, he examined
it and laid it down.

So it went on. One after another he called out the names of the hunters,
beginning with his own as captain; passed the feather which represented
each of them through the particular fire of his destiny, examined
and laid it down. After this he seemed to go to sleep again for a few
minutes, then woke up as a man does from a natural slumber, yawned and
stretched himself.

“Speak,” said his audience, with great anxiety. “Have you seen? Have you
heard? What does your Snake tell you of me? Of me? Of me? Of me?”

“I have seen, I have heard,” he answered. “My Snake tells me that this
will be a very dangerous journey. Of those who go on it six will die by
the bullet, by the spear or by sickness, and others will be hurt.”

“_Ow?_” said one of them, “but which will die and which will come out
safe? Does not your Snake tell you that, O Doctor?”

“Yes, of course my Snake tells me that. But my Snake tells me also
to hold my tongue on the matter, lest some of us should be turned to
cowards. It tells me further that the first who should ask me more, will
be one of those who must die. Now do you ask? Or you? Or you? Or you?
Ask if you will.”

Strange to say no one accepted the invitation. Never have I seen a body
of men so indifferent to the future, at least to every appearance. One
and all they seemed to come to the conclusion that so far as they were
concerned it might be left to look after itself.

“My Snake told me something else,” went on Mavovo. “It is that if among
this company there is any jackal of a man who, thinking that he might be
one of the six to die, dreams to avoid his fate by deserting, it will be
of no use. For then my Snake will point him out and show me how to deal
with him.”

Now with one voice each man present there declared that desertion from
the lord Macumazana was the last thing that could possibly occur to him.
Indeed, I believe that those brave fellows spoke truth. No doubt they
put faith in Mavovo’s magic after the fashion of their race. Still the
death he promised was some way off, and each hoped he would be one of
the six to escape. Moreover, the Zulu of those days was too accustomed
to death to fear its terrors over much.

One of them did, however, venture to advance the argument, which
Mavovo treated with proper contempt, that the shillings paid for this
divination should be returned by him to the next heirs of such of them
as happened to decease. Why, he asked, should these pay a shilling in
order to be told that they must die? It seemed unreasonable.

Certainly the Zulu Kaffirs have a queer way of looking at things.

“Hans,” I whispered, “is your fire among those that burn yonder?”

“Not so, Baas,” he wheezed back into my ear. “Does the Baas think me a
fool? If I must die, I must die; if I am to live, I shall live. Why
then should I pay a shilling to learn what time will declare? Moreover,
yonder Mavovo takes the shillings and frightens everybody, but tells
nobody anything. _I_ call it cheating. But, Baas, do you and the Baas
Wazela have no fear. You did not pay shillings, and therefore Mavovo,
though without doubt he is a great _Inyanga_, cannot really prophesy
concerning you, since his Snake will not work without a fee.”

The argument seems remarkably absurd. Yet it must be common, for now
that I come to think of it, no gipsy will tell a “true fortune” unless
her hand is crossed with silver.

“I say, Quatermain,” said Stephen idly, “since our friend Mavovo seems
to know so much, ask him what has become of Brother John, as Hans
suggested. Tell me what he says afterwards, for I want to see
something.”

So I went through the little gate in the wall in a natural kind of way,
as though I had seen nothing, and appeared to be struck by the sight of
the little fires.

“Well, Mavovo,” I said, “are you doing doctor’s work? I thought that it
had brought you into enough trouble in Zululand.”

“That is so, _Baba_,” replied Mavovo, who had a habit of calling me
“father,” though he was older than I. “It cost me my chieftainship and
my cattle and my two wives and my son. It made of me a wanderer who
is glad to accompany a certain Macumazana to strange lands where many
things may befall me, yes,” he added with meaning, “even the last of all
things. And yet a gift is a gift and must be used. You, _Baba_, have a
gift of shooting and do you cease to shoot? You have a gift of wandering
and can you cease to wander?”

He picked up one of the burnt feathers from the little pile by his side
and looked at it attentively. “Perhaps, _Baba_, you have been told--my
ears are very sharp, and I thought I heard some such words floating
through the air just now--that we poor Kaffir _Inyangas_ can prophesy
nothing true unless we are paid, and perhaps that is a fact so far
as something of the moment is concerned. And yet the Snake in the
_Inyanga_, jumping over the little rock which hides the present from it,
may see the path that winds far and far away through the valleys, across
the streams, up the mountains, till it is lost in the ‘heaven above.’
Thus on this feather, burnt in my magic fire, I seem to see something of
your future, O my father Macumazana. Far and far your road runs,” and he
drew his finger along the feather. “Here is a journey,” and he flicked
away a carbonised flake, “here is another, and another, and another,”
 and he flicked off flake after flake. “Here is one that is very
successful, it leaves you rich; and here is yet one more, a wonderful
journey this in which you see strange things and meet strange people.
Then”--and he blew on the feather in such a fashion that all the charred
filaments (Brother John says that _laminae_ is the right word for them)
fell away from it--“then, there is nothing left save such a pole as some
of my people stick upright on a grave, the Shaft of Memory they call it.
O, my father, you will die in a distant land, but you will leave a great
memory behind you that will live for hundreds of years, for see how
strong is this quill over which the fire has had no power. With some of
these others it is quite different,” he added.

“I daresay,” I broke in, “but, Mavovo, be so good as to leave me out of
your magic, for I don’t at all want to know what is going to happen to
me. To-day is enough for me without studying next month and next year.
There is a saying in our holy book which runs: ‘Sufficient to the day is
its evil.’”

“Quite so, O Macumazana. Also that is a very good saying as some of
those hunters of yours are thinking now. Yet an hour ago they were
forcing their shillings on me that I might tell them of the future. And
_you_, too, want to know something. You did not come through that gate
to quote to me the wisdom of your holy book. What is it, _Baba_? Be
quick, for my Snake is getting very tired. He wishes to go back to his
hole in the world beneath.”

“Well, then,” I answered in rather a shamefaced fashion, for Mavovo had
an uncanny way of seeing into one’s secret motives, “I should like to
know, if you can tell me, which you can’t, what has become of the white
man with the long beard whom you black people call Dogeetah? He should
have been here to go on this journey with us; indeed, he was to be our
guide and we cannot find him. Where is he and why is he not here?”

“Have you anything about you that belonged to Dogeetah, Macumazana?”

“No,” I answered; “that is, yes,” and from my pocket I produced the
stump of pencil that Brother John had given me, which, being economical,
I had saved up ever since. Mavovo took it, and after considering it
carefully as he had done in the case of the feathers, swept up a pile
of ashes with his horny hand from the edge of the largest of the little
fires, that indeed which had represented myself. These ashes he patted
flat. Then he drew on them with the point of the pencil, tracing what
seemed to me to be the rough image of a man, such as children scratch
upon whitewashed walls. When he had finished he sat up and contemplated
his handiwork with all the satisfaction of an artist. A breeze had risen
from the sea and was blowing in little gusts, so that the fine ashes
were disturbed, some of the lines of the picture being filled in and
others altered or enlarged.

For a while Mavovo sat with his eyes shut. Then he opened them, studied
the ashes and what remained of the picture, and taking a blanket that
lay near by, threw it over his own head and over the ashes. Withdrawing
it again presently he cast it aside and pointed to the picture which
was now quite changed. Indeed, in the moonlight, it looked more like a
landscape than anything else.

“All is clear, my father,” he said in a matter-of-fact voice. “The white
wanderer, Dogeetah, is not dead. He lives, but he is sick. Something is
the matter with one of his legs so that he cannot walk. Perhaps a bone
is broken or some beast has bitten him. He lies in a hut such as Kaffirs
make, only this hut has a verandah round it like your stoep, and there
are drawings on the wall. The hut is a long way off, I don’t know
where.”

“Is that all?” I asked, for he paused.

“No, not all. Dogeetah is recovering. He will join us in that country
whither we journey, at a time of trouble. That is all, and the fee is
half-a-crown.”

“You mean one shilling,” I suggested.

“No, my father Macumazana. One shilling for simple magic such as
foretelling the fate of common black people. Half-a-crown for very
difficult magic that has to do with white people, magic of which only
great doctors, like me, Mavovo, are the masters.”

I gave him the half-crown and said:

“Look here, friend Mavovo, I believe in you as a fighter and a hunter,
but as a magician I think you are a humbug. Indeed, I am so sure of it
that if ever Dogeetah turns up at a time of trouble in that land whither
we are journeying, I will make you a present of that double-barrelled
rifle of mine which you admired so much.”

One of his rare smiles appeared upon Mavovo’s ugly face.

“Then give it to me now, _Baba_,” he said, “for it is already earned. My
Snake cannot lie--especially when the fee is half-a-crown.”

I shook my head and declined, politely but with firmness.

“Ah!” said Mavovo, “you white men are very clever and think that you
know everything. But it is not so, for in learning so much that is new,
you have forgotten more that is old. When the Snake that is in you,
Macumazana, dwelt in a black savage like me a thousand thousand years
ago, you could have done and did what I do. But now you can only mock
and say, ‘Mavovo the brave in battle, the great hunter, the loyal man,
becomes a liar when he blows the burnt feather, or reads what the wind
writes upon the charmed ashes.’”

“I do not say that you are a liar, Mavovo, I say that you are deceived
by your own imaginings. It is not possible that man can know what is
hidden from man.”

“Is it indeed so, O Macumazana, Watcher by Night? Am I, Mavovo, the
pupil of Zikali, the Opener of Roads, the greatest of wizards, indeed
deceived by my own imaginings? And has man no other eyes but those in
his head, that he cannot see what is hidden from man? Well, you say so
and all we black people know that you are very clever, and why should I,
a poor Zulu, be able to see what you cannot see? Yet when to-morrow one
sends you a message from the ship in which we are to sail, begging you
to come fast because there is trouble on the ship, then bethink you of
your words and my words, and whether or no man can see what is hidden
from man in the blackness of the future. Oh! that rifle of yours is mine
already, though you will not give it to me now, you who think that I
am a cheat. Well, my father Macumazana, because you think I am a cheat,
never again will I blow the feather or read what the wind writes upon
the ashes for you or any who eat your food.”

Then he rose, saluted me with uplifted right hand, collected his little
pile of money and bag of medicines and marched off to the sleeping hut.

On our way round the house we met my old lame caretaker, Jack.

“_Inkoosi_,” he said, “the white chief Wazela bade me say that he and
the cook, Sam, have gone to sleep on board the ship to look after the
goods. Sam came up just now and fetched him away; he says he will show
you why to-morrow.”

I nodded and passed on, wondering to myself why Stephen had suddenly
determined to stay the night on the _Maria_.




CHAPTER V

                                HASSAN

I suppose it must have been two hours after dawn on the following
morning that I was awakened by knocks upon the door and the voice of
Jack saying that Sam, the cook, wanted to speak to me.

Wondering what he could be doing there, as I understood he was sleeping
on the ship, I called out that he was to come in. Now this Sam, I should
say, hailed from the Cape, and was a person of mixed blood. The original
stock, I imagine, was Malay which had been crossed with Indian coolie.
Also, somewhere or other, there was a dash of white and possibly, but of
this I am not sure, a little Hottentot. The result was a person of
few vices and many virtues. Sammy, I may say at once, was perhaps the
biggest coward I ever met. He could not help it, it was congenital,
though, curiously enough, this cowardice of his never prevented him from
rushing into fresh danger. Thus he knew that the expedition upon which
I was engaged would be most hazardous; remembering his weakness I
explained this to him very clearly. Yet that knowledge did not deter him
from imploring that he might be allowed to accompany me. Perhaps this
was because there was some mutual attachment between us, as in the case
of Hans. Once, a good many years before, I had rescued Sammy from a
somewhat serious scrape by declining to give evidence against him. I
need not enter into the details, but a certain sum of money over which
he had control had disappeared. I will merely say, therefore, that at
the time he was engaged to a coloured lady of very expensive tastes,
whom in the end he never married.

After this, as it chanced, he nursed me through an illness. Hence the
attachment of which I have spoken.

Sammy was the son of a native Christian preacher, and brought up upon
what he called “The Word.” He had received an excellent education for a
person of his class, and in addition to many native dialects with which
a varied career had made him acquainted, spoke English perfectly, though
in the most bombastic style. Never would he use a short word if a long
one came to his hand, or rather to his tongue. For several years of his
life he was, I believe, a teacher in a school at Capetown where coloured
persons received their education; his “department,” as he called it,
being “English Language and Literature.”

Wearying of or being dismissed from his employment for some reason that
he never specified, he had drifted up the coast to Zanzibar, where he
turned his linguistic abilities to the study of Arabic and became the
manager or head cook of an hotel. After a few years he lost this billet,
I know not how or why, and appeared at Durban in what he called a
“reversed position.” Here it was that we met again, just before my
expedition to Pongo-land.

In manners he was most polite, in disposition most religious; I believe
he was a Baptist by faith, and in appearance a small, brown dandy of
a man of uncertain age, who wore his hair parted in the middle and,
whatever the circumstances, was always tidy in his garments.

I took him on because he was in great distress, an excellent cook, the
best of nurses, and above all for the reason that, as I have said,
we were in a way attached to each other. Also, he always amused me
intensely, which goes for something on a long journey of the sort that I
contemplated.

Such in brief was Sammy.

As he entered the room I saw that his clothes were very wet and asked
him at once if it were raining, or whether he had got drunk and been
sleeping in the damp grass.

“No, Mr. Quatermain,” he answered, “the morning is extremely fine, and
like the poor Hottentot, Hans, I have abjured the use of intoxicants.
Though we differ on much else, in this matter we agree.”

“Then what the deuce is up?” I interrupted, to cut short his flow of
fine language.

“Sir, there is trouble on the ship” (remembering Mavovo I started at
these words) “where I passed the night in the company of Mr. Somers at
his special request.” (It was the other way about really.) “This
morning before the dawn, when he thought that everybody was asleep, the
Portuguese captain and some of his Arabs began to weigh the anchor quite
quietly; also to hoist the sails. But Mr. Somers and I, being very much
awake, came out of the cabin and he sat upon the capstan with a revolver
in his hand, saying--well, sir, I will not repeat what he said.”

“No, don’t. What happened then?”

“Then, sir, there followed much noise and confusion. The Portugee and
the Arabs threatened Mr. Somers, but he, sir, continued to sit upon
the capstan with the stern courage of a rock in a rushing stream, and
remarked that he would see them all somewhere before they touched it.
After this, sir, I do not know what occurred, since while I watched from
the bulwarks someone knocked me head over heels into the sea and being
fortunately, a good swimmer, I gained the shore and hurried here to
advise you.”

“And did you advise anyone else, you idiot?” I asked.

“Yes, sir. As I sped along I communicated to an officer of the port that
there was the devil of a mess upon the _Maria_ which he would do well to
investigate.”

By this time I was in my shirt and trousers and shouting to Mavovo and
the others. Soon they arrived, for as the costume of Mavovo and his
company consisted only of a moocha and a blanket, it did not take them
long to dress.

“Mavovo,” I began, “there is trouble on the ship----”

“O _Baba_,” he interrupted with something resembling a grin, “it is very
strange, but last night I dreamed that I told you----”

“Curse your dreams,” I said. “Gather the men and go down--no, that won’t
work, there would be murder done. Either it is all over now or it is
all right. Get the hunters ready; I come with them. The luggage can be
fetched afterwards.”

Within less than an hour we were at that wharf off which the _Maria_
lay in what one day will be the splendid port of Durban, though in
those times its shipping arrangements were exceedingly primitive. A
strange-looking band we must have been. I, who was completely dressed,
and I trust tidy, marched ahead. Next came Hans in the filthy wide-awake
hat which he usually wore and greasy corduroys and after him the
oleaginous Sammy arrayed in European reach-me-downs, a billy-cock and a
bright blue tie striped with red, garments that would have looked very
smart had it not been for his recent immersion. After him followed the
fierce-looking Mavovo and his squad of hunters, all of whom wore the
“ring” or _isicoco_, as the Zulus call it; that is, a circle of polished
black wax sewn into their short hair. They were a grim set of fellows,
but as, according to a recent law it was not allowable for them to
appear armed in the town, their guns had already been shipped, while
their broad stabbing spears were rolled up in their sleeping mats, the
blades wrapped round with dried grass.

Each of them, however, bore in his hand a large knobkerry of red-wood,
and they marched four by four in martial fashion. It is true that when
we embarked on the big boat to go to the ship much of their warlike
ardour evaporated, since these men, who feared nothing on the land, were
terribly afraid of that unfamiliar element, the water.

We reached the _Maria_, an unimposing kind of tub, and climbed aboard.
On looking aft the first thing that I saw was Stephen seated on the
capstan with a pistol in his hand, as Sammy had said. Near by, leaning
on the bulwark was the villainous-looking Portugee, Delgado, apparently
in the worst of tempers and surrounded by a number of equally
villainous-looking Arab sailors clad in dirty white. In front was the
Captain of the port, a well-known and esteemed gentleman of the name
of Cato, like myself a small man who had gone through many adventures.
Accompanied by some attendants, he was seated on the after-skylight,
smoking, with his eyes fixed upon Stephen and the Portugee.

“Glad to see you, Quatermain,” he said. “There’s some row on here, but
I have only just arrived and don’t understand Portuguese, and the
gentleman on the capstan won’t leave it to explain.”

“What’s up, Stephen?” I asked, after shaking Mr. Cato by the hand.

“What’s up?” replied Somers. “This man,” and he pointed to Delgado,
“wanted to sneak out to sea with all our goods, that’s all, to say
nothing of me and Sammy, whom, no doubt, he’d have chucked overboard,
as soon as he was out of sight of land. However, Sammy, who knows
Portuguese, overheard his little plans and, as you see, I objected.”

Well, Delgado was asked for his version of the affair, and, as I
expected, explained that he only intended to get a little nearer to the
bar and there wait till we arrived. Of course he lied and knew that we
were aware of the fact and that his intention had been to slip out to
sea with all our valuable property, which he would sell after having
murdered or marooned Stephen and the poor cook. But as nothing could be
proved, and we were now in strong enough force to look after ourselves
and our belongings, I did not see the use of pursuing the argument. So I
accepted the explanation with a smile, and asked everybody to join in a
morning nip.

Afterwards Stephen told me that while I was engaged with Mavovo on the
previous night, a message had reached him from Sammy who was on board
the ship in charge of our belongings, saying that he would be glad of
some company. Knowing the cook’s nervous nature, fortunately enough
he made up his mind at once to go and sleep upon the _Maria_. In the
morning trouble arose as Sammy had told me. What he did not tell me was
that he was not knocked overboard, as he said, but took to the water of
his own accord, when complications with Delgado appeared imminent.

“I understand the position,” I said, “and all’s well that ends well. But
it’s lucky you thought of coming on board to sleep.”

After this everything went right. I sent some of the men back in the
charge of Stephen for our remaining effects, which they brought safely
aboard, and in the evening we sailed. Our voyage up to Kilwa was
beautiful, a gentle breeze driving us forward over a sea so calm that
not even Hans, who I think was one of the worst sailors in the world,
or the Zulu hunters were really sick, though as Sammy put it, they
“declined their food.”

I think it was on the fifth night of our voyage, or it may have been
the seventh, that we anchored one afternoon off the island of Kilwa, not
very far from the old Portuguese fort. Delgado, with whom we had little
to do during the passage, hoisted some queer sort of signal. In response
a boat came off containing what he called the Port officials, a band of
cut-throat, desperate-looking, black fellows in charge of a
pock-marked, elderly half-breed who was introduced to us as the Bey
Hassan-ben-Mohammed. That Mr. Hassan-ben-Mohammed entirely disapproved
of our presence on the ship, and especially of our proposed landing
at Kilwa, was evident to me from the moment that I set eyes upon his
ill-favoured countenance. After a hurried conference with Delgado, he
came forward and addressed me in Arabic, of which I could not understand
a word. Luckily, however, Sam the cook, who, as I think I said, was a
great linguist, had a fair acquaintance with this tongue, acquired, it
appears, while at the Zanzibar hotel; so, not trusting Delgado, I called
on him to interpret.

“What is he saying, Sammy?” I asked.

He began to talk to Hassan and replied presently:

“Sir, he makes you many compliments. He says that he has heard what a
great man you are from his friend, Delgado, also that you and Mr. Somers
are English, a nation which he adores.”

“Does he?” I exclaimed. “I should never have thought it from his looks.
Thank him for his kind remarks and tell him that we are going to land
here and march up country to shoot.”

Sammy obeyed, and the conversation went on somewhat as follows:

“With all humility I (i.e. Hassan) request you not to land. This country
is not a fit place for such noble gentlemen. There is nothing to eat and
no head of game has been seen for years. The people in the interior
are savages of the worst sort, whom hunger has driven to take to
cannibalism. I would not have your blood upon my head. I beg of you,
therefore, to go on in this ship to Delagoa Bay, where you will find a
good hotel, or to any other place you may select.”

A.Q.: “Might I ask you, noble sir, what is your position at Kilwa, that
you consider yourself responsible for our safety?”

H.: “Honoured English lord, I am a trader here of Portuguese
nationality, but born of an Arab mother of high birth and brought up
among that people. I have gardens on the mainland, tended by my native
servants who are as children to me, where I grow palms and cassava
and ground nuts and plantains and many other kinds of produce. All
the tribes in this district look upon me as their chief and venerated
father.”

A.Q.: “Then, noble Hassan, you will be able to pass us through them,
seeing that we are peaceful hunters who wish to harm no one.”

(A long consultation between Hassan and Delgado, during which I ordered
Mavovo to bring his Zulus on deck with their guns.)

H.: “Honoured English lord, I cannot allow you to land.”

A.Q.: “Noble son of the Prophet, I intend to land with my friend, my
followers, my donkeys and my goods early to-morrow morning. If I can
do so with your leave I shall be glad. If not----” and I glanced at the
fierce group of hunters behind me.

H.: “Honoured English lord, I shall be grieved to use force, but let me
tell you that in my peaceful village ashore I have at least a hundred
men armed with rifles, whereas here I see under twenty.”

A.Q., after reflection and a few words with Stephen Somers: “Can you
tell me, noble sir, if from your peaceful village you have yet sighted
the English man-of-war, _Crocodile_; I mean the steamer that is engaged
in watching for the dhows of wicked slavers? A letter from her captain
informed me that he would be in these waters by yesterday. Perhaps,
however, he has been delayed for a day or two.”

If I had exploded a bomb at the feet of the excellent Hassan its effect
could scarcely have been more remarkable than that of this question. He
turned--not pale, but a horrible yellow, and exclaimed:

“English man-of-war! _Crocodile_! I thought she had gone to Aden to
refit and would not be back at Zanzibar for four months.”

A.Q.: “You have been misinformed, noble Hassan. She will not refit till
October. Shall I read you the letter?” and I produced a piece of paper
from my pocket. “It may be interesting since my friend, the captain,
whom you remember is named Flowers, mentions you in it. He says----”

Hassan waved his hand. “It is enough. I see, honoured lord, that you are
a man of mettle not easily to be turned from your purpose. In the name
of God the Compassionate, land and go wheresoever you like.”

A.Q.: “I think that I had almost rather wait until the _Crocodile_ comes
in.”

H.: “Land! Land! Captain Delgado, get up the cargo and man your boat.
Mine too is at the service of these lords. You, Captain, will like to
get away by this night’s tide. There is still light, Lord Quatermain,
and such hospitality as I can offer is at your service.”

A.Q.: “Ah! I knew Bey Hassan, that you were only joking with me when you
said that you wished us to go elsewhere. An excellent jest, truly, from
one whose hospitality is so famous. Well, to fall in with your wishes,
we will come ashore this evening, and if the Captain Delgado chances to
sight the Queen’s ship _Crocodile_ before he sails, perhaps he will be
so good as to signal to us with a rocket.”

“Certainly, certainly,” interrupted Delgado, who up to this time had
pretended that he understood no English, the tongue in which I was
speaking to the interpreter, Sammy.

Then he turned and gave orders to his Arab crew to bring up our
belongings from the hold and to lower the _Maria’s_ boat.

Never did I see goods transferred in quicker time. Within half an hour
every one of our packages was off that ship, for Stephen Somers kept a
count of them. Our personal baggage went into the _Maria’s_ boat, and
the goods together with the four donkeys which were lowered on to the
top of them, were rumbled pell-mell into the barge-like punt belonging
to Hassan. Here also I was accommodated, with about half of our people,
the rest taking their seats in the smaller boat under the charge of
Stephen.

At length all was ready and we cast off.

“Farewell, Captain,” I cried to Delgado. “If you should sight the
_Crocodile_----”

At this point Delgado broke into such a torrent of bad language in
Portuguese, Arabic and English that I fear the rest of my remarks never
reached him.

As we rowed shorewards I observed that Hans, who was seated near to me
under the stomach of a jackass, was engaged in sniffing at the sides and
bottom of the barge, as a dog might do, and asked him what he was about.

“Very odd smell in this boat,” he whispered back in Dutch. “It stinks of
Kaffir man, just like the hold of the _Maria_. I think this boat is used
to carry slaves.”

“Be quiet,” I whispered back, “and stop nosing at those planks.” But to
myself I thought, Hans is right, we are in a nest of slave-traders, and
this Hassan is their leader.

We rowed past the island, on which I observed the ruins of an old
Portuguese fort and some long grass-roofed huts, where, I reflected, the
slaves were probably kept until they could be shipped away. Observing my
glance fixed upon these, Hassan hastened to explain, through Sammy, that
they were storehouses in which he dried fish and hides, and kept goods.

“How interesting!” I answered. “Further south we dry hides in the sun.”

Crossing a narrow channel we arrived at a rough jetty where we
disembarked, whence we were led by Hassan not to the village which I now
saw upon our left, but to a pleasant-looking, though dilapidated
house that stood a hundred yards from the shore. Something about the
appearance of this house impressed me with the idea that it was never
built by slavers; the whole look of the place with its verandah and
garden suggested taste and civilisation. Evidently educated people had
designed it and resided here. I glanced about me and saw, amidst a grove
of neglected orange trees that were surrounded with palms of some
age, the ruins of a church. About this there was no doubt, for there,
surmounted by a stone cross, was a little pent-house in which still hung
the bell that once summoned the worshippers to prayer.

“Tell the English lord,” said Hassan to Sammy, “that these buildings
were a mission station of the Christians, who abandoned them more than
twenty years ago. When I came here I found them empty.”

“Indeed,” I answered, “and what were the names of those who dwelt in
them?”

“I never heard,” said Hassan; “they had been gone a long while when I
came.”

Then we went up to the house, and for the next hour and more were
engaged with our baggage which was piled in a heap in what had been the
garden and in unpacking and pitching two tents for the hunters which I
caused to be placed immediately in front of the rooms that were assigned
to us. Those rooms were remarkable in their way. Mine had evidently
been a sitting chamber, as I judged from some much broken articles of
furniture, that appeared to be of American make. That which Stephen
occupied had once served as a sleeping-place, for the bedstead of iron
still remained there. Also there were a hanging bookcase, now fallen,
and some tattered remnants of books. One of these, that oddly enough was
well-preserved, perhaps because the white ants or other creatures did
not like the taste of its morocco binding, was a Keble’s _Christian
Year_, on the title-page of which was written, “To my dearest Elizabeth
on her birthday, from her husband.” I took the liberty to put it in my
pocket. On the wall, moreover, still hung the small watercolour picture
of a very pretty young woman with fair hair and blue eyes, in the corner
of which picture was written in the same handwriting as that in the
book, “Elizabeth, aged twenty.” This also I annexed, thinking that it
might come in useful as a piece of evidence.

“Looks as if the owners of this place had left it in a hurry,
Quatermain,” said Stephen.

“That’s it, my boy. Or perhaps they didn’t leave; perhaps they stopped
here.”

“Murdered?”

I nodded and said, “I dare say friend Hassan could tell us something
about the matter. Meanwhile as supper isn’t ready yet, let us have a
look at that church while it is light.”

We walked through the palm and orange grove to where the building stood
finely placed upon a mound. It was well-constructed of a kind of coral
rock, and a glance showed us that it had been gutted by fire; the
discoloured walls told their own tale. The interior was now full of
shrubs and creepers, and an ugly, yellowish snake glided from what had
been the stone altar. Without, the graveyard was enclosed by a broken
wall, only we could see no trace of graves. Near the gateway, however,
was a rough mound.

“If we could dig into that,” I said, “I expect we should find the bones
of the people who inhabited this place. Does that suggest anything to
you, Stephen?”

“Nothing, except that they were probably killed.”

“You should learn to draw inferences. It is a useful art, especially in
Africa. It suggests to me that, if you are right, the deed was not done
by natives, who would never take the trouble to bury the dead. Arabs,
on the contrary, might do so, especially if there were any bastard
Portuguese among them who called themselves Christians. But whatever
happened must have been a long while ago,” and I pointed to a self-sown
hardwood tree growing from the mound which could scarcely have been less
than twenty years old.

We returned to the house to find that our meal was ready. Hassan had
asked us to dine with him, but for obvious reasons I preferred that
Sammy should cook our food and that he should dine with us. He appeared
full of compliments, though I could see hate and suspicion in his eye,
and we fell to on the kid that we had bought from him, for I did not
wish to accept any gifts from this fellow. Our drink was square-face
gin, mixed with water that I sent Hans to fetch with his own hands from
the stream that ran by the house, lest otherwise it should be drugged.

At first Hassan, like a good Mohammedan, refused to touch any spirits,
but as the meal went on he politely relented upon this point, and I
poured him out a liberal tot. The appetite comes in eating, as the
Frenchman said, and the same thing applies to drinking. So at least it
was in Hassan’s case, who probably thought that the quantity swallowed
made no difference to his sin. After the third dose of square-face he
grew quite amiable and talkative. Thinking the opportunity a good one,
I sent for Sammy, and through him told our host that we were anxious to
hire twenty porters to carry our packages. He declared that there was
not such a thing as a porter within a hundred miles, whereon I gave him
some more gin. The end of it was that we struck a bargain, I forget for
how much, he promising to find us twenty good men who were to stay with
us for as long as we wanted them.

Then I asked him about the destruction of the mission station, but
although he was half-drunk, on this point he remained very close. All he
would say was that he had heard that twenty years ago the people called
the Mazitu, who were very fierce, had raided right down to the coast and
killed those who dwelt there, except a white man and his wife who had
fled inland and never been seen again.

“How many of them were buried in that mound by the church?” I asked
quickly.

“Who told you they were buried there?” he replied, with a start, but
seeing his mistake, went on, “I do not know what you mean. I never heard
of anyone being buried. Sleep well, honoured lords, I must go and see to
the loading of my goods upon the _Maria_.” Then rising, he salaamed and
walked, or rather rolled, away.

“So the _Maria_ hasn’t sailed after all,” I said, and whistled in a
certain fashion. Instantly Hans crept into the room out of the darkness,
for this was my signal to him.

“Hans,” I said, “I hear sounds upon that island. Slip down to the shore
and spy out what is happening. No one will see you if you are careful.”

“No, Baas,” he answered with a grin, “I do not think that anyone will
see Hans if he is careful, especially at night,” and he slid away as
quietly as he had come.

Now I went out and spoke to Mavovo, telling him to keep a good watch
and to be sure that every man had his gun ready, as I thought that these
people were slave-traders and might attack us in the night.

In that event, I said, they were to fall back upon the stoep, but not to
fire until I gave the word.

“Good, my father,” he answered. “This is a lucky journey; I never
thought there would be hope of war so soon. My Snake forgot to mention
it the other night. Sleep safe, Macumazana. Nothing that walks shall
reach you while we live.”

“Don’t be so sure,” I answered, and we lay down in the bedroom with our
clothes on and our rifles by our sides.

The next thing I remember was someone shaking me by the shoulder. I
thought it was Stephen, who had agreed to keep awake for the first part
of the night and to call me at one in the morning. Indeed, he was awake,
for I could see the glow from the pipe he smoked.

“Baas,” whispered the voice of Hans, “I have found out everything. They
are loading the _Maria_ with slaves, taking them in big boats from the
island.”

“So,” I answered. “But how did you get here? Are the hunters asleep
without?”

He chuckled. “No, they are not asleep; they look with all their eyes and
listen with all their ears, yet old Hans passed through them; even the
Baas Somers did not hear him.”

“That I didn’t,” said Stephen; “thought a rat was moving, no more.”

I stepped through the place where the door had been on to the stoep.
By the light of the fire which the hunters had lit without I could see
Mavovo sitting wide awake, his gun upon his knees, and beyond him two
sentries. I called him and pointed to Hans.

“See,” I said, “what good watchmen you are when one can step over your
heads and enter my room without your knowing it!”

Mavovo looked at the Hottentot and felt his clothes and boots to see
whether they were wet with the night dew.

“_Ow!_” he exclaimed in a surly voice, “I said that nothing which walks
could reach you, Macumazana, but this yellow snake has crawled between
us on his belly. Look at the new mud that stains his waistcoat.”

“Yet snakes can bite and kill,” answered Hans with a snigger. “Oh! you
Zulus think that you are very brave, and shout and flourish spears and
battleaxes. One poor Hottentot dog is worth a whole impi of you after
all. No, don’t try to strike me, Mavovo the warrior, since we both serve
the same master in our separate ways. When it comes to fighting I will
leave the matter to you, but when it is a case of watching or spying,
do you leave it to Hans. Look here, Mavovo,” and he opened his hand in
which was a horn snuff-box such as Zulus sometimes carry in their ears.
“To whom does this belong?”

“It is mine,” said Mavovo, “and you have stolen it.”

“Yes,” jeered Hans, “it is yours. Also I stole it from your ear as I
passed you in the dark. Don’t you remember that you thought a gnat had
tickled you and hit up at your face?”

“It is true,” growled Mavovo, “and you, snake of a Hottentot, are great
in your own low way. Yet next time anything tickles me, I shall strike,
not with my hand, but with a spear.”

Then I turned them both out, remarking to Stephen that this was a good
example of the eternal fight between courage and cunning. After this, as
I was sure that Hassan and his friends were too busy to interfere with
us that night, we went to bed and slept the sleep of the just.

When I got up the next morning I found that Stephen Somers had already
risen and gone out, nor did he appear until I was half through my
breakfast.

“Where on earth have you been?” I asked, noting that his clothes were
torn and covered with wet moss.

“Up the tallest of those palm trees, Quatermain. Saw an Arab climbing
one of them with a rope and got another Arab to teach me the trick. It
isn’t really difficult, though it looks alarming.”

“What in the name of goodness----” I began.

“Oh!” he interrupted, “my ruling passion. Looking through the glasses I
thought I caught sight of an orchid growing near the crown, so went
up. It wasn’t an orchid after all, only a mass of yellow pollen. But I
learned something for my pains. Sitting in the top of that palm I saw
the _Maria_ working out from under the lee of the island. Also, far
away, I noted a streak of smoke, and watching it through the glasses,
made out what looked to me uncommonly like a man-of-war steaming slowly
along the coast. In fact, I am sure it was, and English too. Then the
mist came up and I lost sight of them.”

“My word!” I said, “that will be the _Crocodile_. What I told our host,
Hassan, was not altogether bunkum. Mr. Cato, the port officer at Durban,
mentioned to me that the _Crocodile_ was expected to call there within
the next fortnight to take in stores after a slave-hunting cruise down
the coast. Now it would be odd if she chanced to meet the _Maria_ and
asked to have a look at her cargo, wouldn’t it?”

“Not at all, Quatermain, for unless one or the other of them changes her
course that is just what she must do within the next hour or so, and I
jolly well hope she will. I haven’t forgiven that beast, Delgado, the
trick he tried to play on us by slipping away with our goods, to say
nothing of those poor devils of slaves. Pass the coffee, will you?”

For the next ten minutes we ate in silence, for Stephen had an excellent
appetite and was hungry after his morning climb.

Just as we finished our meal Hassan appeared, looking even more
villainous than he had done the previous day. I saw also that he was
in a truculent mood, induced perhaps by the headache from which he was
evidently suffering as a result of his potations. Or perhaps the fact
that the _Maria_ had got safe away with the slaves, as he imagined
unobserved by us, was the cause of the change of his demeanour. A third
alternative may have been that he intended to murder us during the
previous night and found no safe opportunity of carrying out his amiable
scheme.

We saluted him courteously, but without salaaming in reply he asked me
bluntly through Sammy when we intended to be gone, as such “Christian
dogs defiled his house,” which he wanted for himself.

I answered, as soon as the twenty bearers whom he had promised us
appeared, but not before.

“You lie,” he said. “I never promised you bearers; I have none here.”

“Do you mean that you shipped them all away in the _Maria_ with the
slaves last night?” I asked, sweetly.

My reader, have you ever taken note of the appearance and proceedings
of a tom-cat of established age and morose disposition when a little
dog suddenly disturbs it on the prowl? Have you observed how it contorts
itself into arched but unnatural shapes, how it swells visibly to almost
twice its normal size, how its hair stands up and its eyes flash, and
the stream of unmentionable language that proceeds from its open mouth?
If so, you will have a very good idea of the effect produced upon Hassan
by this remark of mine. The fellow looked as though he were going to
burst with rage. He rolled about, his bloodshot eyes seemed to protrude,
he cursed us horribly, he put his hand upon the hilt of the great knife
he wore, and finally he did what the tom-cat does, he spat.

Now, Stephen was standing with me, looking as cool as a cucumber and
very much amused, and being, as it chanced, a little nearer to Hassan
than I was, received the full benefit of this rude proceeding. My word!
didn’t it wake him up. He said something strong, and the next second
flew at the half-breed like a tiger, landing him a beauty straight upon
the nose. Back staggered Hassan, drawing his knife as he did so, but
Stephen’s left in the eye caused him to drop it, as he dropped himself.
I pounced upon the knife, and since it was too late to interfere, for
the mischief had been done, let things take their course and held back
the Zulus who had rushed up at the noise.

Hassan rose and, to do him credit, came on like a man, head down. His
great skull caught Stephen, who was the lighter of the two, in the chest
and knocked him over, but before the Arab could follow up the advantage,
he was on his feet again. Then ensued a really glorious mill. Hassan
fought with head and fists and feet, Stephen with fists alone. Dodging
his opponent’s rushes, he gave it to him as he passed, and soon his
coolness and silence began to tell. Once he was knocked over by a hooked
one under the jaw, but in the next round he sent the Arab literally
flying head over heels. Oh! how those Zulus cheered, and I, too, danced
with delight. Up Hassan came again, spitting out several teeth and,
adopting new tactics, grabbed Stephen round the middle. To and fro they
swung, the Arab trying to kick the Englishman with his knees and to bite
him also, till the pain reminded him of the absence of his front teeth.
Once he nearly got him down--nearly, but not quite, for the collar by
which he had gripped him (his object was to strangle) burst and, at that
juncture, Hassan’s turban fell over his face, blinding him for a moment.

Then Stephen gripped him round the middle with his left arm and with his
right pommelled him unmercifully till he sank in a sitting position to
the ground and held up his hand in token of surrender.

“The noble English lord has beaten me,” he gasped.

“Apologise!” yelled Stephen, picking up a handful of mud, “or I shove
this down your dirty throat.”

He seemed to understand. At any rate, he bowed till his forehead touched
the ground, and apologised very thoroughly.

“Now that is over,” I said cheerfully to him, “so how about those
bearers?”

“I have no bearers,” he answered.

“You dirty liar,” I exclaimed; “one of my people has been down to your
village there and says it is full of men.”

“Then go and take them for yourself,” he replied, viciously, for he knew
that the place was stockaded.

Now I was in a fix. It was all very well to give a slave-dealer the
thrashing he deserved, but if he chose to attack us with his Arabs we
should be in a poor way. Watching me with the eye that was not bunged
up, Hassan guessed my perplexity.

“I have been beaten like a dog,” he said, his rage returning to him with
his breath, “but God is compassionate and just, He will avenge in due
time.”

The words had not left his lips for one second when from somewhere out
at sea there floated the sullen boom of a great gun. At this moment,
too, an Arab rushed up from the shore, crying:

“Where is the Bey Hassan?”

“Here,” I said, pointing at him.

The Arab stared until I thought his eyes would drop out, for the Bey
Hassan was indeed a sight to see. Then he gabbled in a frightened voice:

“Captain, an English man-of-war is chasing the _Maria_.”

Boom went the great gun for the second time. Hassan said nothing, but
his jaw dropped, and I saw that he had lost exactly three teeth.

“That is the _Crocodile_,” I remarked slowly, causing Sammy to
translate, and as I spoke, produced from my inner pocket a Union Jack
which I had placed there after I heard that the ship was sighted.
“Stephen,” I went on as I shook it out, “if you have got your wind,
would you mind climbing up that palm tree again and signalling with this
to the _Crocodile_ out at sea?”

“By George! that’s a good idea,” said Stephen, whose jovial face,
although swollen, was now again wreathed in smiles. “Hans, bring me a
long stick and a bit of string.”

But Hassan did not think it at all a good idea.

“English lord,” he gasped, “you shall have the bearers. I will go to
fetch them.”

“No, you won’t,” I said, “you will stop here as a hostage. Send that
man.”

Hassan uttered some rapid orders and the messenger sped away, this time
towards the stockaded village on the right.

As he went another messenger arrived, who also stared amazedly at the
condition of his chief.

“Bey--if you are the Bey,” he said, in a doubtful voice, for by now
the amiable face of Hassan had begun to swell and colour, “with the
telescope we have seen that the English man-of-war has sent a boat and
boarded the _Maria_.”

“God is great!” muttered the discomfited Hassan, “and Delgado, who is a
thief and a traitor from his mother’s breast, will tell the truth. The
English sons of Satan will land here. All is finished; nothing is left
but flight. Bid the people fly into the bush and take the slaves--I mean
their servants. I will join them.”

“No, you won’t,” I interrupted, through Sammy; “at any rate, not at
present. You will come with us.”

The miserable Hassan reflected, then he asked:

“Lord Quatermain” (I remember the title, because it is the nearest I
ever got, or am likely to get, to the peerage), “if I furnish you with
the twenty bearers and accompany you for some days on your journey
inland, will you promise not to signal to your countrymen on the ship
and bring them ashore?”

“What do you think?” I asked of Stephen.

“Oh!” he answered, “I think I’d agree. This scoundrel has had a pretty
good dusting, and if once the _Crocodile_ people land, there’ll be an
end of our expedition. As sure as eggs are eggs they will carry us off
to Zanzibar or somewhere to give evidence before a slave court. Also
nothing will be gained, for by the time the sailors get here, all these
rascals will have bolted, except our friend, Hassan. You see it isn’t
as though we were sure he would be hung. He’d probably escape after all.
International law, subject of a foreign Power, no direct proof--that
kind of thing, you know.”

“Give me a minute or two,” I said, and began to reflect very deeply.

Whilst I was thus engaged several things happened. I saw twenty natives
being escorted towards us, doubtless the bearers who had been promised;
also I saw many others, accompanied by other natives, flying from the
village into the bush. Lastly, a third messenger arrived, who announced
that the _Maria_ was sailing away, apparently in charge of a prize-crew,
and that the man-of-war was putting about as though to accompany her.
Evidently she had no intention of effecting a landing upon what was,
nominally at any rate, Portuguese territory. Therefore, if anything was
to be done, we must act at once.

Well, the end of it was that, like a fool, I accepted Stephen’s advice
and did nothing, always the easiest course and generally that which
leads to most trouble. Ten minutes afterwards I changed my mind, but
then it was too late; the _Crocodile_ was out of signalling distance.
This was subsequent to a conversation with Hans.

“Baas,” said that worthy, in his leery fashion, “I think you have made a
mistake. You forget that these yellow devils in white robes who have
run away will come back again, and that when you return from up country,
they may be waiting for you. Now if the English man-of-war had destroyed
their town, and their slave-sheds, they might have gone somewhere else.
However,” he added, as an afterthought, glancing at the disfigured
Hassan, “we have their captain, and of course you mean to hang him,
Baas. Or if you don’t like to, leave it to me. I can hang men very well.
Once, when I was young, I helped the executioner at Cape Town.”

“Get out,” I said, but, nevertheless, I knew that Hans was right.




CHAPTER VI

                            THE SLAVE ROAD

The twenty bearers having arrived, in charge of five or six Arabs armed
with guns, we went to inspect them, taking Hassan with us, also
the hunters. They were a likely lot of men, though rather thin and
scared-looking, and evidently, as I could see from their physical
appearance and varying methods of dressing the hair, members of
different tribes. Having delivered them, the Arabs, or rather one of
them, entered into excited conversation with Hassan. As Sammy was not
at hand I do not know what was said, although I gathered that they were
contemplating his rescue. If so, they gave up the idea and began to run
away as their companions had done. One of them, however, a bolder fellow
than the rest, turned and fired at me. He missed by some yards, as I
could tell from the sing of the bullet, for these Arabs are execrable
shots. Still his attempt at murder irritated me so much that I
determined he should not go scot-free. I was carrying the little rifle
called “Intombi,” that with which, as Hans had reminded me, I shot the
vultures at Dingaan’s kraal many years before. Of course, I could have
killed the man, but this I did not wish to do. Or I could have shot him
through the leg, but then we should have had to nurse him or leave him
to die! So I selected his right arm, which was outstretched as he fled,
and at about fifty paces put a bullet through it just above the elbow.

“There,” I said to the Zulus as I saw it double up, “that low fellow
will never shoot at anyone again.”

“Pretty, Macumazana, very pretty!” said Mavovo, “but as you can aim so
well, why not have chosen his head? That bullet is half-wasted.”

Next I set to work to get into communication with the bearers, who
thought, poor devils, that they had been but sold to a new master. Here
I may explain that they were slaves not meant for exportation, but men
kept to cultivate Hassan’s gardens. Fortunately I found that two of them
belonged to the Mazitu people, who it may be remembered are of the
same blood as the Zulus, although they separated from the parent stock
generations ago. These men talked a dialect that I could understand,
though at first not very easily. The foundation of it was Zulu, but it
had become much mixed with the languages of other tribes whose women the
Mazitu had taken to wife.

Also there was a man who could speak some bastard Arabic, sufficiently
well for Sammy to converse with him.

I asked the Mazitus if they knew the way back to their country. They
answered yes, but it was far off, a full month’s journey. I told them
that if they would guide us thither, they should receive their freedom
and good pay, adding that if the other men served us well, they also
should be set free when we had done with them. On receiving this
information the poor wretches smiled in a sickly fashion and looked at
Hassan-ben-Mohammed, who glowered at them and us from the box on which
he was seated in charge of Mavovo.

How can we be free while that man lives, their look seemed to say. As
though to confirm their doubts Hassan, who understood or guessed what
was passing, asked by what right we were promising freedom to his
slaves.

“By right of that,” I answered, pointing to the Union Jack which Stephen
still had in his hand. “Also we will pay you for them when we return,
according as they have served us.”

“Yes,” he muttered, “you will pay me for them when you return, or
perhaps before that, Englishman.”

It was three o’clock in the afternoon before we were able to make a
start. There was so much to be arranged that it might have been wiser
to wait till the morrow, had we not determined that if we could help it
nothing would induce us to spend another night in that place. Blankets
were served out to each of the bearers who, poor naked creatures, seemed
quite touched at the gift of them; the loads were apportioned, having
already been packed at Durban in cases such as one man could carry. The
pack saddles were put upon the four donkeys which proved to be none the
worse for their journey, and burdens to a weight of about 100 lbs. each
fixed on them in waterproof hide bags, besides cooking calabashes and
sleeping mats which Hans produced from somewhere. Probably he stole them
out of the deserted village, but as they were necessary to us I confess
I asked no questions. Lastly, six or eight goats which were wandering
about were captured to take with us for food till we could find game.
For these I offered to pay Hassan, but when I handed him the money he
threw it down in a rage, so I picked it up and put it in my pocket again
with a clear conscience.

At length everything was more or less ready, and the question arose as
to what was to be done with Hassan. The Zulus, like Hans, wished to kill
him, as Sammy explained to him in his best Arabic. Then this murderous
fellow showed what a coward he was at heart. He flung himself upon his
knees, he wept, he invoked us in the name of the Compassionate Allah
who, he explained, was after all the same God that we worshipped, till
Mavovo, growing impatient of the noise, threatened him with his kerry,
whereon he became silent. The easy-natured Stephen was for letting him
go, a plan that seemed to have advantages, for then at least we should
be rid of his abominable company. After reflection, however, I decided
that we had better take him along with us, at any rate for a day or so,
to hold as a hostage in case the Arabs should follow and attack us. At
first he refused to stir, but the assegai of one of the Zulu hunters
pressed gently against what remained of his robe, furnished an argument
that he could not resist.

At length we were off. I with the two guides went ahead. Then came the
bearers, then half of the hunters, then the four donkeys in charge of
Hans and Sammy, then Hassan and the rest of the hunters, except Mavovo,
who brought up the rear with Stephen. Needless to say, all our rifles
were loaded, and generally we were prepared for any emergency. The only
path, that which the guides said we must follow, ran by the seashore
for a few hundred yards and then turned inland through Hassan’s village
where he lived, for it seemed that the old mission house was not used by
him. As we marched along a little rocky cliff--it was not more than ten
feet high--where a deep-water channel perhaps fifty yards in breadth
separated the mainland from the island whence the slaves had been loaded
on to the _Maria_, some difficulty arose about the donkeys. One of these
slipped its load and another began to buck and evinced an inclination to
leap into the sea with its precious burden. The rearguard of hunters ran
to get hold of it, when suddenly there was a splash.

The brute’s in! I thought to myself, till a shout told me that not
the ass, but Hassan had departed over the cliff’s edge. Watching his
opportunity and being, it was clear, a first-rate swimmer, he had flung
himself backwards in the midst of the confusion and falling into deep
water, promptly dived. About twenty yards from the shore he came up for
a moment, then dived again heading for the island. I dare say I could
have potted him through the head with a snap shot, but somehow I did
not like to kill a man swimming for his life as though he were a
hippopotamus or a crocodile. Moreover, the boldness of the manoeuvre
appealed to me. So I refrained from firing and called to the others to
do likewise.

As our late host approached the shore of the island I saw Arabs running
down the rocks to help him out of the water. Either they had not left
the place, or had re-occupied it as soon as H.M.S. _Crocodile_ had
vanished with her prize. As it was clear that to recapture Hassan would
involve an attack upon the garrison of the island which we were in no
position to carry out, I gave orders for the march to be resumed. These,
the difficulty with the donkey having been overcome, were obeyed at
once.

It was fortunate that we did not delay, for scarcely had the caravan got
into motion when the Arabs on the island began to fire at us. Luckily no
one was hit, and we were soon round a point and under cover; also their
shooting was as bad as usual. One missile, however, it was a pot-leg,
struck a donkey-load and smashed a bottle of good brandy and a tin of
preserved butter. This made me angry, so motioning to the others to
proceed I took shelter behind a tree and waited till a torn and dirty
turban, which I recognised as that of Hassan, poked up above a rock.
Well, I put a bullet through that turban, for I saw the thing fly, but
unfortunately, not through the head beneath it. Having left this P.P.C.
card on our host, I bolted from the rock and caught up the others.

Presently we passed round the village; through it I would not go for
fear of an ambuscade. It was quite a big place, enclosed with a strong
fence, but hidden from the sea by a rise in the intervening land. In the
centre was a large eastern-looking house, where doubtless Hassan
dwelt with his harem. After we had gone a little way further, to my
astonishment I saw flames breaking out from the palm-leaf roof of this
house. At the time I could not imagine how this happened, but when,
a day or two later, I observed Hans wearing a pair of large and very
handsome gold pendants in his ears and a gold bracelet on his wrist, and
found that he and one of the hunters were extremely well set up in the
matter of British sovereigns--well, I had my doubts. In due course
the truth came out. He and the hunter, an adventurous spirit, slipped
through a gate in the fence without being observed, ran across the
deserted village to the house, stole the ornaments and money from the
women’s apartments and as they departed, fired the place “in exchange
for the bottle of good brandy,” as Hans explained.

I was inclined to be angry, but after all, as we had been fired on,
Hans’s exploit became an act of war rather than a theft. So I made him
and his companion divide the gold equally with the rest of the hunters,
who no doubt had kept their eyes conveniently shut, not forgetting
Sammy, and said no more. They netted £8 apiece, which pleased them very
much. In addition to this I gave £1 each, or rather goods to that value,
to the bearers as their share of the loot.

Hassan, I remarked, was evidently a great agriculturist, for the gardens
which he worked by slave labour were beautiful, and must have brought
him in a large revenue.

Passing through these gardens we came to sloping land covered with bush.
Here the track was not too good, for the creepers hampered our progress.
Indeed, I was very glad when towards sunset we reached the crest of a
hill and emerged upon a tableland which was almost clear of trees and
rose gradually till it met the horizon. In that bush we might easily
have been attacked, but in this open country I was not so much afraid,
since the loss to the Arabs would have been great before we were
overpowered. As a matter of fact, although spies dogged us for days no
assault was ever attempted.

Finding a convenient place by a stream we camped for the night, but as
it was so fine, did not pitch the tents. Afterwards I was sorry that
we had not gone further from the water, since the mosquitoes bred by
millions in the marshes bordering the stream gave us a dreadful time. On
poor Stephen, fresh from England, they fell with peculiar ferocity, with
the result that in the morning what between the bruises left by Hassan
and their bites, he was a spectacle for men and angels. Another thing
that broke our rest was the necessity of keeping a strict watch in case
the slave-traders should elect to attack us in the hours of darkness;
also to guard against the possibility of our bearers running away and
perhaps stealing the goods. It is true that before they went to sleep I
explained to them very clearly that any of them who attempted to give us
the slip would certainly be seen and shot, whereas if they remained with
us they would be treated with every kindness. They answered through the
two Mazitu that they had nowhere to go, and did not wish to fall again
into the power of Hassan, of whom they spoke literally with shudders,
pointing the while to their scarred backs and the marks of the slave
yokes upon their necks. Their protestations seemed and indeed proved to
be sincere, but of this of course we could not then be sure.

As I was engaged at sunrise in making certain that the donkeys had not
strayed and generally that all was well, I noted through the thin mist
a little white object, which at first I thought was a small bird sitting
on an upright stick about fifty yards from the camp. I went towards it
and discovered that it was not a bird but a folded piece of paper stuck
in a cleft wand, such as natives often use for the carrying of letters.
I opened the paper and with great difficulty, for the writing within was
bad Portuguese, read as follows:


 “English Devils.--Do not think that you have escaped me. I know
  where you are going, and if you live through the journey it will
  be but to die at my hands after all. I tell you that I have at my
  command three hundred brave men armed with guns who worship Allah
  and thirst for the blood of Christian dogs. With these I will
  follow, and if you fall into my hands alive, you shall learn what
  it is to die by fire or pinned over ant-heaps in the sun. Let us
  see if your English man-of-war will help you then, or your false
  God either. Misfortune go with you, white-skinned robbers of
  honest men!”


This pleasing epistle was unsigned, but its anonymous author was not
hard to identify. I showed it to Stephen who was so infuriated at its
contents that he managed to dab some ammonia with which he was treating
his mosquito bites into his eye. When at length the pain was soothed by
bathing, we concocted this answer:


 “Murderer, known among men as Hassan-ben-Mohammed--Truly we sinned
  in not hanging you when you were in our power. Oh! wolf who grows
  fat upon the blood of the innocent, this is a fault that we shall
  not commit again. Your death is near to you and we believe at our
  hands. Come with all your villains whenever you will. The more
  there are of them the better we shall be pleased, who would rather
  rid the world of many fiends than of a few,

                           “Till we meet again, Allan Quatermain,
                                                  Stephen Somers.”


“Neat, if not Christian,” I said when I had read the letter over.

“Yes,” replied Stephen, “but perhaps just a little bombastic in tone. If
that gentleman did arrive with three hundred armed men--eh?”

“Then, my boy,” I answered, “in this way or in that we shall thrash him.
I don’t often have an inspiration, but I’ve got one now, and it is to
the effect that Mr. Hassan has not very long to live and that we shall
be intimately connected with his end. Wait till you have seen a slave
caravan and you will understand my feelings. Also I know these gentry.
That little prophecy of ours will get upon his nerves and give him a
foretaste of things. Hans, go and set this letter in that cleft stick.
The postman will call for it before long.”



As it happened, within a few days we did see a slave caravan, some of
the merchandise of the estimable Hassan.

We had been making good progress through a beautiful and healthy
country, steering almost due west, or rather a little to the north of
west. The land was undulating and rich, well-watered and only bush-clad
in the neighbourhood of the streams, the higher ground being open, of
a park-like character, and dotted here and there with trees. It was
evident that once, and not very long ago, the population had been dense,
for we came to the remains of many villages, or rather towns with large
market-places. Now, however, these were burned with fire, or deserted,
or occupied only by a few old bodies who got a living from the overgrown
gardens. These poor people, who sat desolate and crooning in the sun, or
perhaps worked feebly at the once fertile fields, would fly screaming
at our approach, for to them men armed with guns must of necessity be
slave-traders.

Still from time to time we contrived to catch some of them, and through
one member of our party or the other to get at their stories. Really it
was all one story. The slaving Arabs, on this pretext or on that, had
set tribe against tribe. Then they sided with the stronger and conquered
the weaker by aid of their terrible guns, killing out the old folk and
taking the young men, women and children (except the infants whom they
butchered) to be sold as slaves. It seemed that the business had begun
about twenty years before, when Hassan-ben-Mohammed and his companions
arrived at Kilwa and drove away the missionary who had built a station
there.

At first this trade was extremely easy and profitable, since the
raw material lay near at hand in plenty. By degrees, however, the
neighbouring communities had been worked out. Countless numbers of them
were killed, while the pick of the population passed under the slave
yoke, and those of them who survived, vanished in ships to unknown
lands. Thus it came about that the slavers were obliged to go further
afield and even to conduct their raids upon the borders of the territory
of the great Mazitu people, the inland race of Zulu origin of whom I
have spoken. According to our informants, it was even rumoured that they
proposed shortly to attack these Mazitus in force, relying on their guns
to give them the victory and open to them a new and almost inexhaustible
store of splendid human merchandise. Meanwhile they were cleaning out
certain small tribes which hitherto had escaped them, owing to the fact
that they had their residence in bush or among difficult hills.

The track we followed was the recognised slave road. Of this we soon
became aware by the numbers of skeletons which we found lying in the
tall grass at its side, some of them with heavy slave-sticks still upon
their wrists. These, I suppose, had died from exhaustion, but others, as
their split skulls showed had been disposed of by their captors.

On the eighth day of our march we struck the track of a slave caravan.
It had been travelling towards the coast, but for some reason or other
had turned back. This may have been because its leaders had been warned
of the approach of our party. Or perhaps they had heard that another
caravan, which was at work in a different district, was drawing near,
bringing its slaves with it, and wished to wait for its arrival in order
that they might join forces.

The spoor of these people was easy to follow. First we found the body
of a boy of about ten. Then vultures revealed to us the remains of two
young men, one of whom had been shot and the other killed by a blow from
an axe. Their corpses were roughly hidden beneath some grass, I know not
why. A mile or two further on we heard a child wailing and found it by
following its cries. It was a little girl of about four who had been
pretty, though now she was but a living skeleton. When she saw us she
scrambled away on all fours like a monkey. Stephen followed her, while
I, sick at heart, went to get a tin of preserved milk from our
stores. Presently I heard him call to me in a horrified voice. Rather
reluctantly, for I knew that he must have found something dreadful,
I pushed my way through the bush to where he was. There, bound to the
trunk of a tree, sat a young woman, evidently the mother of the child,
for it clung to her leg.

Thank God she was still living, though she must have died before another
day dawned. We cut her loose, and the Zulu hunters, who are kind folk
enough when they are not at war, carried her to camp. In the end with
much trouble we saved the lives of that mother and child. I sent for the
two Mazitus, with whom I could by now talk fairly well, and asked them
why the slavers did these things.

They shrugged their shoulders and one of them answered with a rather
dreadful laugh:

“Because, Chief, these Arabs, being black-hearted, kill those who can
walk no more, or tie them up to die. If they let them go they might
recover and escape, and it makes the Arabs sad that those who have been
their slaves should live to be free and happy.”

“Does it? Does it indeed?” exclaimed Stephen with a snort of rage that
reminded me of his father. “Well, if ever I get a chance I’ll make them
sad with a vengeance.”

Stephen was a tender-hearted young man, and for all his soft and
indolent ways, an awkward customer when roused.

Within forty-eight hours he got his chance, thus: That day we camped
early for two reasons. The first was that the woman and child we had
rescued were so weak they could not walk without rest, and we had no men
to spare to carry them; the second that we came to an ideal spot to
pass the night. It was, as usual, a deserted village through which ran a
beautiful stream of water. Here we took possession of some outlying huts
with a fence round them, and as Mavovo had managed to shoot a fat eland
cow and her half-grown calf, we prepared to have a regular feast. Whilst
Sammy was making some broth for the rescued woman, and Stephen and I
smoked our pipes and watched him, Hans slipped through the broken gate
of the thorn fence, or _boma_, and announced that Arabs were coming, two
lots of them with many slaves.

We ran out to look and saw that, as he had said, two caravans were
approaching, or rather had reached the village, but at some distance
from us, and were now camping on what had once been the market-place.
One of these was that whose track we had followed, although during the
last few hours of our march we had struck away from it, chiefly because
we could not bear such sights as I have described. It seemed to comprise
about two hundred and fifty slaves and over forty guards, all black men
carrying guns, and most of them by their dress Arabs, or bastard Arabs.
In the second caravan, which approached from another direction, were not
more than one hundred slaves and about twenty or thirty captors.

“Now,” I said, “let us eat our dinner and then, if you like, we will
go to call upon those gentlemen, just to show that we are not afraid
of them. Hans, get the flag and tie it to the top of that tree; it will
show them to what country we belong.”

Up went the Union Jack duly, and presently through our glasses we saw
the slavers running about in a state of excitement; also we saw the poor
slaves turn and stare at the bit of flapping bunting and then begin to
talk to each other. It struck me as possible that someone among their
number had seen a Union Jack in the hands of an English traveller, or
had heard of it as flying upon ships or at points on the coast, and what
it meant to slaves. Or they may have understood some of the remarks of
the Arabs, which no doubt were pointed and explanatory. At any rate,
they turned and stared till the Arabs ran among them with sjambocks,
that is, whips of hippopotamus hide, and suppressed their animated
conversation with many blows.

At first I thought that they would break camp and march away; indeed,
they began to make preparations to do this, then abandoned the idea,
probably because the slaves were exhausted and there was no other water
they could reach before nightfall. In the end they settled down and lit
cooking fires. Also, as I observed, they took precautions against attack
by stationing sentries and forcing the slaves to construct a _boma_ of
thorns about their camp.

“Well,” said Stephen, when we had finished our dinner, “are you ready
for that call?”

“No!” I answered, “I do not think that I am. I have been considering
things, and concluded that we had better leave well alone. By this time
those Arabs will know all the story of our dealings with their worthy
master, Hassan, for no doubt he has sent messengers to them. Therefore,
if we go to their camp, they may shoot us at sight. Or, if they receive
us well, they may offer hospitality and poison us, or cut our throats
suddenly. Our position might be better, still it is one that I believe
they would find difficult to take. So, in my opinion, we had better stop
still and await developments.”

Stephen grumbled something about my being over-cautious, but I took no
heed of him. One thing I did do, however. Sending for Hans, I told him
to take one of the Mazitu--I dared not risk them both for they were our
guides--and another of the natives whom we had borrowed from Hassan,
a bold fellow who knew all the local languages, and creep down to the
slavers’ camp as soon as it was quite dark. There I ordered him to find
out what he could, and if possible to mix with the slaves and explain
that we were their friends. Hans nodded, for this was exactly the kind
of task that appealed to him, and went off to make his preparations.

Stephen and I also made some preparations in the way of strengthening
our defences, building large watch-fires and setting sentries.

The night fell, and Hans with his companions departed stealthily as
snakes. The silence was intense, save for the occasional wailings of
the slaves, which now and again broke out in bursts of melancholy sound,
“_La-lu-La-lua!_” and then died away, to be followed by horrid screams
as the Arabs laid their lashes upon some poor wretch. Once too, a shot
was fired.

“They have seen Hans,” said Stephen.

“I think not,” I answered, “for if so there would have been more than
one shot. Either it was an accident or they were murdering a slave.”

After this nothing more happened for a long while, till at length Hans
seemed to rise out of the ground in front of me, and behind him I saw
the figures of the Mazitu and the other man.

“Tell your story,” I said.

“Baas, it is this. Between us we have learned everything. The Arabs know
all about you and what men you have. Hassan has sent them orders to kill
you. It is well that you did not go to visit them, for certainly you
would have been murdered. We crept near and overheard their talk. They
purpose to attack us at dawn to-morrow morning unless we leave this
place before, which they will know of as we are being watched.”

“And if so, what then?” I asked.

“Then, Baas, they will attack as we are making up the caravan, or
immediately afterwards as we begin to march.”

“Indeed. Anything more, Hans?”

“Yes, Baas. These two men crept among the slaves and spoke with
them. They are very sad, those slaves, and many of them have died of
heart-pain because they have been taken from their homes and do not know
where they are going. I saw one die just now; a young woman. She
was talking to another woman and seemed quite well, only tired, till
suddenly she said in a loud voice, ‘I am going to die, that I may come
back as a spirit and bewitch these devils till they are spirits too.’
Then she called upon the fetish of her tribe, put her hands to her
breast and fell down dead. At least,” added Hans, spitting reflectively,
“she did not fall quite down because the slave-stick held her head off
the ground. The Arabs were very angry, both because she had cursed them
and was dead. One of them came and kicked her body and afterwards shot
her little boy who was sick, because the mother had cursed them. But
fortunately he did not see us, because we were in the dark far from the
fire.”

“Anything more, Hans?”

“One thing, Baas. These two men lent the knives you gave them to two
of the boldest among the slaves that they might cut the cords of the
slave-sticks and the other cords with which they were tied, and then
pass them down the lines, that their brothers might do the same. But
perhaps the Arabs will find it out, and then the Mazitu and the other
must lose their knives. That is all. Has the Baas a little tobacco?”

“Now, Stephen,” I said when Hans had gone and I had explained
everything, “there are two courses open to us. Either we can try to give
these gentlemen the slip at once, in which case we must leave the woman
and child to their fate, or we can stop where we are and wait to be
attacked.”

“I won’t run,” said Stephen sullenly; “it would be cowardly to desert
that poor creature. Also we should have a worse chance marching.
Remember Hans said that they are watching us.”

“Then you would wait to be attacked?”

“Isn’t there a third alternative, Quatermain? To attack them?”

“That’s the idea,” I said. “Let us send for Mavovo.”

Presently he came and sat down in front of us, while I set out the case
to him.

“It is the fashion of my people to attack rather than to be attacked,
and yet, my father, in this case my heart is against it. Hans” (he
called him _Inblatu_, a Zulu word which means Spotted Snake, that was
the Hottentot’s Kaffir name) “says that there are quite sixty of the
yellow dogs, all armed with guns, whereas we have not more than fifteen,
for we cannot trust the slave men. Also he says that they are within a
strong fence and awake, with spies out, so that it will be difficult to
surprise them. But here, father, we are in a strong fence and cannot be
surprised. Also men who torture and kill women and children, except in
war must, I think, be cowards, and will come on faintly against good
shooting, if indeed they come at all. Therefore, I say, ‘Wait till
the buffalo shall either charge or run.’ But the word is with you,
Macumazana, wise Watcher-by-Night, not with me, your hunter. Speak, you
who are old in war, and I will obey.”

“You argue well,” I answered; “also another reason comes to my mind.
Those Arab brutes may get behind the slaves, of whom we should butcher
a lot without hurting them. Stephen, I think we had better see the thing
through here.”

“All right, Quatermain. Only I hope that Mavovo is wrong in thinking
that those blackguards may change their minds and run away.”

“Really, young man, you are becoming very blood-thirsty--for an orchid
grower,” I remarked, looking at him. “Now, for my part, I devoutly hope
that Mavovo is right, for let me tell you, if he isn’t it may be a nasty
job.”

“I’ve always been peaceful enough up to the present,” replied Stephen.
“But the sight of those unhappy wretches of slaves with their heads cut
open, and of the woman tied to a tree to starve----”

“Make you wish to usurp the functions of God Almighty,” I said. “Well,
it is a natural impulse and perhaps, in the circumstances, one that will
not displease Him. And now, as we have made up our minds what we are
going to do, let’s get to business so that these Arab gentlemen may find
their breakfast ready when they come to call.”




CHAPTER VII

                        THE RUSH OF THE SLAVES

Well, we did all that we could in the way of making ready. After we had
strengthened the thorn fence of our _boma_ as much as possible and lit
several large fires outside of it to give us light, I allotted his place
to each of the hunters and saw that their rifles were in order and that
they had plenty of ammunition. Then I made Stephen lie down to sleep,
telling him that I would wake him to watch later on. This, however,
I had no intention of doing as I wanted him to rise fresh and with a
steady nerve on the occasion of his first fight.

As soon as I saw that his eyes were shut I sat down on a box to think.
To tell the truth, I was not altogether happy in my mind. To begin with
I did not know how the twenty bearers would behave under fire. They
might be seized with panic and rush about, in which case I determined to
let them out of the _boma_ to take their chance, for panic is a catching
thing.

A worse matter was our rather awkward position. There were a good many
trees round the camp among which an attacking force could take cover.
But what I feared much more than this, or even than the reedy banks of
the stream along which they could creep out of reach of our bullets, was
a sloping stretch of land behind us, covered with thick grass and scrub
and rising to a crest about two hundred yards away. Now if the Arabs got
round to this crest they would fire straight into our _boma_ and make it
untenable. Also if the wind were in their favour, they might burn us out
or attack under the clouds of smoke. As a matter of fact, by the special
mercy of Providence, none of these things happened, for a reason which I
will explain presently.

In the case of a night, or rather a dawn attack, I have always found
that hour before the sky begins to lighten very trying indeed. As a rule
everything that can be done is done, so that one must sit idle. Also
it is then that both the physical and the moral qualities are at their
lowest ebb, as is the mercury in the thermometer. The night is dying,
the day is not yet born. All nature feels the influence of that hour.
Then bad dreams come, then infants wake and call, then memories of
those who are lost to us arise, then the hesitating soul often takes its
plunge into the depths of the Unknown. It is not wonderful, therefore,
that on this occasion the wheels of Time drave heavily for me. I knew
that the morning was at hand by many signs. The sleeping bearers turned
and muttered in their sleep, a distant lion ceased its roaring and
departed to its own place, an alert-minded cock crew somewhere, and our
donkeys rose and began to pull at their tether-ropes. As yet, however,
it was quite dark. Hans crept up to me; I saw his wrinkled, yellow face
in the light of the watch-fire.

“I smell the dawn,” he said and vanished again.

Mavovo appeared, his massive frame silhouetted against the blackness.

“Watcher-by-Night, the night is done,” he said. “If they come at all,
the enemy should soon be here.”

Saluting, he too passed away into the dark, and presently I heard the
sounds of spear-blades striking together and of rifles being cocked.

I went to Stephen and woke him. He sat up yawning, muttered something
about greenhouses; then remembering, said:

“Are those Arabs coming? We are in for a fight at last. Jolly, old
fellow, isn’t it?”

“You are a jolly old fool!” I answered inconsequently; and marched off
in a rage.

My mind was uneasy about this inexperienced young man. If anything
should happen to him, what should I say to his father? Well, in that
event, it was probable that something would happen to me too. Very
possibly we should both be dead in an hour. Certainly I had no intention
of allowing myself to be taken alive by those slaving devils. Hassan’s
remarks about fires and ant-heaps and the sun were too vividly impressed
upon my memory.

In another five minutes everybody was up, though it required kicks to
rouse most of the bearers from their slumbers. They, poor men, were
accustomed to the presence of Death and did not suffer him to disturb
their sleep. Still I noted that they muttered together and seemed
alarmed.

“If they show signs of treachery, you must kill them,” I said to Mavovo,
who nodded in his grave, silent fashion.

Only we left the rescued slave-woman and her child plunged in the stupor
of exhaustion in a corner of the camp. What was the use of disturbing
her?

Sammy, who seemed far from comfortable, brought two pannikins of coffee
to Stephen and myself.

“This is a momentous occasion, Messrs. Quatermain and Somers,” he said
as he gave us the coffee, and I noted that his hand shook and his teeth
chattered. “The cold is extreme,” he went on in his copybook English by
way of explaining these physical symptoms which he saw I had observed.
“Mr. Quatermain, it is all very well for you to paw the ground and smell
the battle from afar, as is written in the Book of Job. But I was not
brought up to the trade and take it otherwise. Indeed I wish I was back
at the Cape, yes, even within the whitewashed walls of the Place of
Detention.”

“So do I,” I muttered, keeping my right foot on the ground with
difficulty.

But Stephen laughed outright and asked:

“What will you do, Sammy, when the fighting begins?”

“Mr. Somers,” he answered, “I have employed some wakeful hours in making
a hole behind that tree-trunk, through which I hope bullets will not
pass. There, being a man of peace, I shall pray for our success.”

“And if the Arabs get in, Sammy?”

“Then, sir, under Heaven, I shall trust to the fleetness of my legs.”

I could stand it no longer, my right foot flew up and caught Sammy in
the place at which I had aimed. He vanished, casting a reproachful look
behind him.

Just then a terrible clamour arose in the slavers’ camp which hitherto
had been very silent, and just then also the first light of dawn glinted
on the barrels of our guns.

“Look out!” I cried, as I gulped down the last of my coffee, “there’s
something going on there.”

The clamour grew louder and louder till it seemed to fill the skies with
a concentrated noise of curses and shrieking. Distinct from it, as it
were, I heard shouts of alarm and rage, and then came the sounds of
gunshots, yells of agony and the thud of many running feet. By now
the light was growing fast, as it does when once it comes in these
latitudes. Three more minutes, and through the grey mist of the dawn
we saw dozens of black figures struggling up the slope towards us. Some
seemed to have logs of wood tied behind them, others crawled along on
all fours, others dragged children by the hand, and all yelled at the
top of their voices.

“The slaves are attacking us,” said Stephen, lifting his rifle.

“Don’t shoot,” I cried. “I think they have broken loose and are taking
refuge with us.”

I was right. These unfortunates had used the two knives which our men
smuggled to them to good purpose. Having cut their bonds during the
night they were running to seek the protection of the Englishmen and
their flag. On they surged, a hideous mob, the slave-sticks still fast
to t

Showing first 200,000 characters. Full text: gutenberg.org/ebooks/5174