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Allan Quatermain

by H. Rider Haggard · English · Gutenberg #711 · 594,837 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Allan Quatermain

Author: H. Rider Haggard


        
Release date: November 18, 2004 [eBook #711]
                Most recently updated: April 10, 2021

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/711

Credits: Ng E-Ching, Singapore and David Widger


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ALLAN QUATERMAIN ***

[Illustration]




Allan Quatermain

by H. Rider Haggard


Contents

 INTRODUCTION

 CHAPTER I. THE CONSUL’S YARN
 CHAPTER II. THE BLACK HAND
 CHAPTER III. THE MISSION STATION
 CHAPTER IV. ALPHONSE AND HIS ANNETTE
 CHAPTER V. UMSLOPOGAAS MAKES A PROMISE
 CHAPTER VI. THE NIGHT WEARS ON
 CHAPTER VII. A SLAUGHTER GRIM AND GREAT
 CHAPTER VIII. ALPHONSE EXPLAINS
 CHAPTER IX. INTO THE UNKNOWN
 CHAPTER X. THE ROSE OF FIRE
 CHAPTER XI. THE FROWNING CITY
 CHAPTER XII. THE SISTER QUEENS
 CHAPTER XIII. ABOUT THE ZU-VENDI PEOPLE
 CHAPTER XIV. THE FLOWER TEMPLE
 CHAPTER XV. SORAIS’ SONG
 CHAPTER XVI. BEFORE THE STATUE
 CHAPTER XVII. THE STORM BREAKS
 CHAPTER XVIII. WAR! RED WAR!
 CHAPTER XIX. A STRANGE WEDDING
 CHAPTER XX. THE BATTLE OF THE PASS
 CHAPTER XI. AWAY! AWAY!
 CHAPTER XII. HOW UMSLOPOGAAS HELD THE STAIR
 CHAPTER XIII. I HAVE SPOKEN
 CHAPTER XIV. BY ANOTHER HAND

 NOTE BY GEORGE CURTIS, Esq.
 AUTHORITIES




I inscribe this book of adventure to my son ARTHUR JOHN RIDER HAGGARD

in the hope that in days to come he, and many other boys whom I shall
never know, may, in the acts and thoughts of Allan Quatermain and his
companions, as herein recorded, find something to help him and them to
reach to what, with Sir Henry Curtis, I hold to be the highest rank
whereto we can attain—the state and dignity of English gentlemen.




INTRODUCTION

December 23

“I have just buried my boy, my poor handsome boy of whom I was so
proud, and my heart is broken. It is very hard having only one son to
lose him thus, but God’s will be done. Who am I that I should complain?
The great wheel of Fate rolls on like a Juggernaut, and crushes us all
in turn, some soon, some late—it does not matter when, in the end, it
crushes us all. We do not prostrate ourselves before it like the poor
Indians; we fly hither and thither—we cry for mercy; but it is of no
use, the black Fate thunders on and in its season reduces us to powder.

“Poor Harry to go so soon! just when his life was opening to him. He
was doing so well at the hospital, he had passed his last examination
with honours, and I was proud of them, much prouder than he was, I
think. And then he must needs go to that smallpox hospital. He wrote to
me that he was not afraid of smallpox and wanted to gain the
experience; and now the disease has killed him, and I, old and grey and
withered, am left to mourn over him, without a chick or child to
comfort me. I might have saved him, too—I have money enough for both of
us, and much more than enough—King Solomon’s Mines provided me with
that; but I said, ‘No, let the boy earn his living, let him labour that
he may enjoy rest.’ But the rest has come to him before the labour. Oh,
my boy, my boy!

“I am like the man in the Bible who laid up much goods and builded
barns—goods for my boy and barns for him to store them in; and now his
soul has been required of him, and I am left desolate. I would that it
had been my soul and not my boy’s!

“We buried him this afternoon under the shadow of the grey and ancient
tower of the church of this village where my house is. It was a dreary
December afternoon, and the sky was heavy with snow, but not much was
falling. The coffin was put down by the grave, and a few big flakes lit
upon it. They looked very white upon the black cloth! There was a
little hitch about getting the coffin down into the grave—the necessary
ropes had been forgotten: so we drew back from it, and waited in
silence watching the big flakes fall gently one by one like heavenly
benedictions, and melt in tears on Harry’s pall. But that was not all.
A robin redbreast came as bold as could be and lit upon the coffin and
began to sing. And then I am afraid that I broke down, and so did Sir
Henry Curtis, strong man though he is; and as for Captain Good, I saw
him turn away too; even in my own distress I could not help noticing
it.”

The above, signed “Allan Quatermain”, is an extract from my diary
written two years and more ago. I copy it down here because it seems to
me that it is the fittest beginning to the history that I am about to
write, if it please God to spare me to finish it. If not, well it does
not matter. That extract was penned seven thousand miles or so from the
spot where I now lie painfully and slowly writing this, with a pretty
girl standing by my side fanning the flies from my august countenance.
Harry is there and I am here, and yet somehow I cannot help feeling
that I am not far off Harry.

When I was in England I used to live in a very fine house—at least I
call it a fine house, speaking comparatively, and judging from the
standard of the houses I have been accustomed to all my life in
Africa—not five hundred yards from the old church where Harry is
asleep, and thither I went after the funeral and ate some food; for it
is no good starving even if one has just buried all one’s earthly
hopes. But I could not eat much, and soon I took to walking, or rather
limping—being permanently lame from the bite of a lion—up and down, up
and down the oak-panelled vestibule; for there is a vestibule in my
house in England. On all the four walls of this vestibule were placed
pairs of horns—about a hundred pairs altogether, all of which I had
shot myself. They are beautiful specimens, as I never keep any horns
which are not in every way perfect, unless it may be now and again on
account of the associations connected with them. In the centre of the
room, however, over the wide fireplace, there was a clear space left on
which I had fixed up all my rifles. Some of them I have had for forty
years, old muzzle-loaders that nobody would look at nowadays. One was
an elephant gun with strips of rimpi, or green hide, lashed round the
stock and locks, such as used to be owned by the Dutchmen—a “roer” they
call it. That gun, the Boer I bought it from many years ago told me,
had been used by his father at the battle of the Blood River, just
after Dingaan swept into Natal and slaughtered six hundred men, women,
and children, so that the Boers named the place where they died
“Weenen”, or the “Place of Weeping”; and so it is called to this day,
and always will be called. And many an elephant have I shot with that
old gun. She always took a handful of black powder and a three-ounce
ball, and kicked like the very deuce.

Well, up and down I walked, staring at the guns and the horns which the
guns had brought low; and as I did so there rose up in me a great
craving:—I would go away from this place where I lived idly and at
ease, back again to the wild land where I had spent my life, where I
met my dear wife and poor Harry was born, and so many things, good,
bad, and indifferent, had happened to me. The thirst for the wilderness
was on me; I could tolerate this place no more; I would go and die as I
had lived, among the wild game and the savages. Yes, as I walked, I
began to long to see the moonlight gleaming silvery white over the wide
veldt and mysterious sea of bush, and watch the lines of game
travelling down the ridges to the water. The ruling passion is strong
in death, they say, and my heart was dead that night. But,
independently of my trouble, no man who has for forty years lived the
life I have, can with impunity go coop himself in this prim English
country, with its trim hedgerows and cultivated fields, its stiff
formal manners, and its well-dressed crowds. He begins to long—ah, how
he longs!—for the keen breath of the desert air; he dreams of the sight
of Zulu impis breaking on their foes like surf upon the rocks, and his
heart rises up in rebellion against the strict limits of the civilized
life.

Ah! this civilization, what does it all come to? For forty years and
more I lived among savages, and studied them and their ways; and now
for several years I have lived here in England, and have in my own
stupid manner done my best to learn the ways of the children of light;
and what have I found? A great gulf fixed? No, only a very little one,
that a plain man’s thought may spring across. I say that as the savage
is, so is the white man, only the latter is more inventive, and
possesses the faculty of combination; save and except also that the
savage, as I have known him, is to a large extent free from the greed
of money, which eats like a cancer into the heart of the white man. It
is a depressing conclusion, but in all essentials the savage and the
child of civilization are identical. I dare say that the highly
civilized lady reading this will smile at an old fool of a hunter’s
simplicity when she thinks of her black bead-bedecked sister; and so
will the superfine cultured idler scientifically eating a dinner at his
club, the cost of which would keep a starving family for a week. And
yet, my dear young lady, what are those pretty things round your own
neck?—they have a strong family resemblance, especially when you wear
that _very_ low dress, to the savage woman’s beads. Your habit of
turning round and round to the sound of horns and tom-toms, your
fondness for pigments and powders, the way in which you love to
subjugate yourself to the rich warrior who has captured you in
marriage, and the quickness with which your taste in feathered
head-dresses varies—all these things suggest touches of kinship; and
you remember that in the fundamental principles of your nature you are
quite identical. As for you, sir, who also laugh, let some man come and
strike you in the face whilst you are enjoying that marvellous-looking
dish, and we shall soon see how much of the savage there is in _you_.

There, I might go on for ever, but what is the good? Civilization is
only savagery silver-gilt. A vainglory is it, and like a northern
light, comes but to fade and leave the sky more dark. Out of the soil
of barbarism it has grown like a tree, and, as I believe, into the soil
like a tree it will once more, sooner or later, fall again, as the
Egyptian civilization fell, as the Hellenic civilization fell, and as
the Roman civilization and many others of which the world has now lost
count, fell also. Do not let me, however, be understood as decrying our
modern institutions, representing as they do the gathered experience of
humanity applied for the good of all. Of course they have great
advantages—hospitals for instance; but then, remember, we breed the
sickly people who fill them. In a savage land they do not exist.
Besides, the question will arise: How many of these blessings are due
to Christianity as distinct from civilization? And so the balance sways
and the story runs—here a gain, there a loss, and Nature’s great
average struck across the two, whereof the sum total forms one of the
factors in that mighty equation in which the result will equal the
unknown quantity of her purpose.

I make no apology for this digression, especially as this is an
introduction which all young people and those who never like to think
(and it is a bad habit) will naturally skip. It seems to me very
desirable that we should sometimes try to understand the limitations of
our nature, so that we may not be carried away by the pride of
knowledge. Man’s cleverness is almost indefinite, and stretches like an
elastic band, but human nature is like an iron ring. You can go round
and round it, you can polish it highly, you can even flatten it a
little on one side, whereby you will make it bulge out the other, but
you will _never_, while the world endures and man is man, increase its
total circumference. It is the one fixed unchangeable thing—fixed as
the stars, more enduring than the mountains, as unalterable as the way
of the Eternal. Human nature is God’s kaleidoscope, and the little bits
of coloured glass which represent our passions, hopes, fears, joys,
aspirations towards good and evil and what not, are turned in His
mighty hand as surely and as certainly as it turns the stars, and
continually fall into new patterns and combinations. But the composing
elements remain the same, nor will there be one more bit of coloured
glass nor one less for ever and ever.

This being so, supposing for the sake of argument we divide ourselves
into twenty parts, nineteen savage and one civilized, we must look to
the nineteen savage portions of our nature, if we would really
understand ourselves, and not to the twentieth, which, though so
insignificant in reality, is spread all over the other nineteen, making
them appear quite different from what they really are, as the blacking
does a boot, or the veneer a table. It is on the nineteen rough
serviceable savage portions that we fall back in emergencies, not on
the polished but unsubstantial twentieth. Civilization should wipe away
our tears, and yet we weep and cannot be comforted. Warfare is
abhorrent to her, and yet we strike out for hearth and home, for honour
and fair fame, and can glory in the blow. And so on, through
everything.

So, when the heart is stricken, and the head is humbled in the dust,
civilization fails us utterly. Back, back, we creep, and lay us like
little children on the great breast of Nature, she that perchance may
soothe us and make us forget, or at least rid remembrance of its sting.
Who has not in his great grief felt a longing to look upon the outward
features of the universal Mother; to lie on the mountains and watch the
clouds drive across the sky and hear the rollers break in thunder on
the shore, to let his poor struggling life mingle for a while in her
life; to feel the slow beat of her eternal heart, and to forget his
woes, and let his identity be swallowed in the vast imperceptibly
moving energy of her of whom we are, from whom we came, and with whom
we shall again be mingled, who gave us birth, and will in a day to come
give us our burial also.

And so in my trouble, as I walked up and down the oak-panelled
vestibule of my house there in Yorkshire, I longed once more to throw
myself into the arms of Nature. Not the Nature which you know, the
Nature that waves in well-kept woods and smiles out in corn-fields, but
Nature as she was in the age when creation was complete, undefiled as
yet by any human sinks of sweltering humanity. I would go again where
the wild game was, back to the land whereof none know the history, back
to the savages, whom I love, although some of them are almost as
merciless as Political Economy. There, perhaps, I should be able to
learn to think of poor Harry lying in the churchyard, without feeling
as though my heart would break in two.

And now there is an end of this egotistical talk, and there shall be no
more of it. But if you whose eyes may perchance one day fall upon my
written thoughts have got so far as this, I ask you to persevere, since
what I have to tell you is not without its interest, and it has never
been told before, nor will again.




CHAPTER I.
THE CONSUL’S YARN


A week had passed since the funeral of my poor boy Harry, and one
evening I was in my room walking up and down and thinking, when there
was a ring at the outer door. Going down the steps I opened it myself,
and in came my old friends Sir Henry Curtis and Captain John Good, RN.
They entered the vestibule and sat themselves down before the wide
hearth, where, I remember, a particularly good fire of logs was
burning.

“It is very kind of you to come round,” I said by way of making a
remark; “it must have been heavy walking in the snow.”

They said nothing, but Sir Henry slowly filled his pipe and lit it with
a burning ember. As he leant forward to do so the fire got hold of a
gassy bit of pine and flared up brightly, throwing the whole scene into
strong relief, and I thought, What a splendid-looking man he is! Calm,
powerful face, clear-cut features, large grey eyes, yellow beard and
hair—altogether a magnificent specimen of the higher type of humanity.
Nor did his form belie his face. I have never seen wider shoulders or a
deeper chest. Indeed, Sir Henry’s girth is so great that, though he is
six feet two high, he does not strike one as a tall man. As I looked at
him I could not help thinking what a curious contrast my little
dried-up self presented to his grand face and form. Imagine to yourself
a small, withered, yellow-faced man of sixty-three, with thin hands,
large brown eyes, a head of grizzled hair cut short and standing up
like a half-worn scrubbing-brush—total weight in my clothes, nine stone
six—and you will get a very fair idea of Allan Quatermain, commonly
called Hunter Quatermain, or by the natives “Macumazahn”—Anglicè, he
who keeps a bright look-out at night, or, in vulgar English, a sharp
fellow who is not to be taken in.

Then there was Good, who is not like either of us, being short, dark,
stout—_very_ stout—with twinkling black eyes, in one of which an
eyeglass is everlastingly fixed. I say stout, but it is a mild term; I
regret to state that of late years Good has been running to fat in a
most disgraceful way. Sir Henry tells him that it comes from idleness
and over-feeding, and Good does not like it at all, though he cannot
deny it.

We sat for a while, and then I got a match and lit the lamp that stood
ready on the table, for the half-light began to grow dreary, as it is
apt to do when one has a short week ago buried the hope of one’s life.
Next, I opened a cupboard in the wainscoting and got a bottle of whisky
and some tumblers and water. I always like to do these things for
myself: it is irritating to me to have somebody continually at my
elbow, as though I were an eighteen-month-old baby. All this while
Curtis and Good had been silent, feeling, I suppose, that they had
nothing to say that could do me any good, and content to give me the
comfort of their presence and unspoken sympathy; for it was only their
second visit since the funeral. And it is, by the way, from the
_presence_ of others that we really derive support in our dark hours of
grief, and not from their talk, which often only serves to irritate us.
Before a bad storm the game always herd together, but they cease their
calling.

They sat and smoked and drank whisky and water, and I stood by the fire
also smoking and looking at them.

At last I spoke. “Old friends,” I said, “how long is it since we got
back from Kukuanaland?”

“Three years,” said Good. “Why do you ask?”

“I ask because I think that I have had a long enough spell of
civilization. I am going back to the veldt.”

Sir Henry laid his head back in his arm-chair and laughed one of his
deep laughs. “How very odd,” he said, “eh, Good?”

Good beamed at me mysteriously through his eyeglass and murmured, “Yes,
odd—very odd.”

“I don’t quite understand,” said I, looking from one to the other, for
I dislike mysteries.

“Don’t you, old fellow?” said Sir Henry; “then I will explain. As Good
and I were walking up here we had a talk.”

“If Good was there you probably did,” I put in sarcastically, for Good
is a great hand at talking. “And what may it have been about?”

“What do you think?” asked Sir Henry.

I shook my head. It was not likely that I should know what Good might
be talking about. He talks about so many things.

“Well, it was about a little plan that I have formed—namely, that if
you were willing we should pack up our traps and go off to Africa on
another expedition.”

I fairly jumped at his words. “You don’t say so!” I said.

“Yes I do, though, and so does Good; don’t you, Good?”

“Rather,” said that gentleman.

“Listen, old fellow,” went on Sir Henry, with considerable animation of
manner. “I’m tired of it too, dead-tired of doing nothing more except
play the squire in a country that is sick of squires. For a year or
more I have been getting as restless as an old elephant who scents
danger. I am always dreaming of Kukuanaland and Gagool and King
Solomon’s Mines. I can assure you I have become the victim of an almost
unaccountable craving. I am sick of shooting pheasants and partridges,
and want to have a go at some large game again. There, you know the
feeling—when one has once tasted brandy and water, milk becomes insipid
to the palate. That year we spent together up in Kukuanaland seems to
me worth all the other years of my life put together. I dare say that I
am a fool for my pains, but I can’t help it; I long to go, and, what is
more, I mean to go.” He paused, and then went on again. “And, after
all, why should I not go? I have no wife or parent, no chick or child
to keep me. If anything happens to me the baronetcy will go to my
brother George and his boy, as it would ultimately do in any case. I am
of no importance to any one.”

“Ah!” I said, “I thought you would come to that sooner or later. And
now, Good, what is your reason for wanting to trek; have you got one?”

“I have,” said Good, solemnly. “I never do anything without a reason;
and it isn’t a lady—at least, if it is, it’s several.”

I looked at him again. Good is so overpoweringly frivolous. “What is
it?” I said.

“Well, if you really want to know, though I’d rather not speak of a
delicate and strictly personal matter, I’ll tell you: I’m getting too
fat.”

“Shut up, Good!” said Sir Henry. “And now, Quatermain, tell us, where
do you propose going to?”

I lit my pipe, which had gone out, before answering.

“Have you people ever heard of Mt Kenia?” I asked.

“Don’t know the place,” said Good.

“Did you ever hear of the Island of Lamu?” I asked again.

“No. Stop, though—isn’t it a place about 300 miles north of Zanzibar?”

“Yes. Now listen. What I have to propose is this. That we go to Lamu
and thence make our way about 250 miles inland to Mt Kenia; from Mt
Kenia on inland to Mt Lekakisera, another 200 miles, or thereabouts,
beyond which no white man has to the best of my belief ever been; and
then, if we get so far, right on into the unknown interior. What do you
say to that, my hearties?”

“It’s a big order,” said Sir Henry, reflectively.

“You are right,” I answered, “it is; but I take it that we are all
three of us in search of a big order. We want a change of scene, and we
are likely to get one—a thorough change. All my life I have longed to
visit those parts, and I mean to do it before I die. My poor boy’s
death has broken the last link between me and civilization, and I’m off
to my native wilds. And now I’ll tell you another thing, and that is,
that for years and years I have heard rumours of a great white race
which is supposed to have its home somewhere up in this direction, and
I have a mind to see if there is any truth in them. If you fellows like
to come, well and good; if not, I’ll go alone.”

“I’m your man, though I don’t believe in your white race,” said Sir
Henry Curtis, rising and placing his arm upon my shoulder.

“Ditto,” remarked Good. “I’ll go into training at once. By all means
let’s go to Mt Kenia and the other place with an unpronounceable name,
and look for a white race that does not exist. It’s all one to me.”

“When do you propose to start?” asked Sir Henry.

“This day month,” I answered, “by the British India steamboat; and
don’t you be so certain that things have no existence because you do
not happen to have heard of them. Remember King Solomon’s mines!”

Some fourteen weeks or so had passed since the date of this
conversation, and this history goes on its way in very different
surroundings.

After much deliberation and inquiry we came to the conclusion that our
best starting-point for Mt Kenia would be from the neighbourhood of the
mouth of the Tana River, and not from Mombassa, a place over 100 miles
nearer Zanzibar. This conclusion we arrived at from information given
to us by a German trader whom we met upon the steamer at Aden. I think
that he was the dirtiest German I ever knew; but he was a good fellow,
and gave us a great deal of valuable information. “Lamu,” said he, “you
goes to Lamu—oh ze beautiful place!” and he turned up his fat face and
beamed with mild rapture. “One year and a half I live there and never
change my shirt—never at all.”

And so it came to pass that on arriving at the island we disembarked
with all our goods and chattels, and, not knowing where to go, marched
boldly up to the house of Her Majesty’s Consul, where we were most
hospitably received.

Lamu is a very curious place, but the things which stand out most
clearly in my memory in connection with it are its exceeding dirtiness
and its smells. These last are simply awful. Just below the Consulate
is the beach, or rather a mud bank that is called a beach. It is left
quite bare at low tide, and serves as a repository for all the filth,
offal, and refuse of the town. Here it is, too, that the women come to
bury coconuts in the mud, leaving them there till the outer husk is
quite rotten, when they dig them up again and use the fibres to make
mats with, and for various other purposes. As this process has been
going on for generations, the condition of the shore can be better
imagined than described. I have smelt many evil odours in the course of
my life, but the concentrated essence of stench which arose from that
beach at Lamu as we sat in the moonlit night—not under, but _on_ our
friend the Consul’s hospitable roof—and sniffed it, makes the
remembrance of them very poor and faint. No wonder people get fever at
Lamu. And yet the place was not without a certain quaintness and charm
of its own, though possibly—indeed probably—it was one which would
quickly pall.

“Well, where are you gentlemen steering for?” asked our friend the
hospitable Consul, as we smoked our pipes after dinner.

“We propose to go to Mt Kenia and then on to Mt Lekakisera,” answered
Sir Henry. “Quatermain has got hold of some yarn about there being a
white race up in the unknown territories beyond.”

The Consul looked interested, and answered that he had heard something
of that, too.

“What have you heard?” I asked.

“Oh, not much. All I know about it is that a year or so ago I got a
letter from Mackenzie, the Scotch missionary, whose station, ‘The
Highlands’, is placed at the highest navigable point of the Tana River,
in which he said something about it.”

“Have you the letter?” I asked.

“No, I destroyed it; but I remember that he said that a man had arrived
at his station who declared that two months’ journey beyond Mt
Lekakisera, which no white man has yet visited—at least, so far as I
know—he found a lake called Laga, and that then he went off to the
north-east, a month’s journey, over desert and thorn veldt and great
mountains, till he came to a country where the people are white and
live in stone houses. Here he was hospitably entertained for a while,
till at last the priests of the country set it about that he was a
devil, and the people drove him away, and he journeyed for eight months
and reached Mackenzie’s place, as I heard, dying. That’s all I know;
and if you ask me, I believe that it is a lie; but if you want to find
out more about it, you had better go up the Tana to Mackenzie’s place
and ask him for information.”

Sir Henry and I looked at each other. Here was something tangible.

“I think that we will go to Mr Mackenzie’s,” I said.

“Well,” answered the Consul, “that is your best way, but I warn you
that you are likely to have a rough journey, for I hear that the Masai
are about, and, as you know, they are not pleasant customers. Your best
plan will be to choose a few picked men for personal servants and
hunters, and to hire bearers from village to village. It will give you
an infinity of trouble, but perhaps on the whole it will prove a
cheaper and more advantageous course than engaging a caravan, and you
will be less liable to desertion.”

Fortunately there were at Lamu at this time a party of Wakwafi Askari
(soldiers). The Wakwafi, who are a cross between the Masai and the
Wataveta, are a fine manly race, possessing many of the good qualities
of the Zulu, and a great capacity for civilization. They are also great
hunters. As it happened, these particular men had recently been on a
long trip with an Englishman named Jutson, who had started from
Mombasa, a port about 150 miles below Lamu, and journeyed right round
Kilimanjaro, one of the highest known mountains in Africa. Poor fellow,
he had died of fever when on his return journey, and within a day’s
march of Mombasa. It does seem hard that he should have gone off thus
when within a few hours of safety, and after having survived so many
perils, but so it was. His hunters buried him, and then came on to Lamu
in a dhow. Our friend the Consul suggested to us that we had better try
and hire these men, and accordingly on the following morning we started
to interview the party, accompanied by an interpreter.

In due course we found them in a mud hut on the outskirts of the town.
Three of the men were sitting outside the hut, and fine frank-looking
fellows they were, having a more or less civilized appearance. To them
we cautiously opened the object of our visit, at first with very scant
success. They declared that they could not entertain any such idea,
that they were worn and weary with long travelling, and that their
hearts were sore at the loss of their master. They meant to go back to
their homes and rest awhile. This did not sound very promising, so by
way of effecting a diversion I asked where the remainder of them were.
I was told there were six, and I saw but three. One of the men said
they slept in the hut, and were yet resting after their labours—“sleep
weighed down their eyelids, and sorrow made their hearts as lead: it
was best to sleep, for with sleep came forgetfulness. But the men
should be awakened.”

Presently they came out of the hut, yawning—the first two men being
evidently of the same race and style as those already before us; but
the appearance of the third and last nearly made me jump out of my
skin. He was a very tall, broad man, quite six foot three, I should
say, but gaunt, with lean, wiry-looking limbs. My first glance at him
told me that he was no Wakwafi: he was a pure bred Zulu. He came out
with his thin aristocratic-looking hand placed before his face to hide
a yawn, so I could only see that he was a “Keshla” or ringed man,[1]
and that he had a great three-cornered hole in his forehead. In another
second he removed his hand, revealing a powerful-looking Zulu face,
with a humorous mouth, a short woolly beard, tinged with grey, and a
pair of brown eyes keen as a hawk’s. I knew my man at once, although I
had not seen him for twelve years. “How do you do, Umslopogaas?” I said
quietly in Zulu.

 [1] Among the Zulus a man assumes the ring, which is made of a species
 of black gum twisted in with the hair, and polished a brilliant black,
 when he has reached a certain dignity and age, or is the husband of a
 sufficient number of wives. Till he is in a position to wear a ring he
 is looked on as a boy, though he may be thirty-five years of age, or
 even more.—A. Q.

The tall man (who among his own people was commonly known as the
“Woodpecker”, and also as the “Slaughterer”) started, and almost let
the long-handled battleaxe he held in his hand fall in his
astonishment. Next second he had recognized me, and was saluting me in
an outburst of sonorous language which made his companions the Wakwafi
stare.

“Koos” (chief), he began, “Koos-y-Pagete! Koos-y-umcool! (Chief from of
old—mighty chief) Koos! Baba! (father) Macumazahn, old hunter, slayer
of elephants, eater up of lions, clever one! watchful one! brave one!
quick one! whose shot never misses, who strikes straight home, who
grasps a hand and holds it to the death (i.e. is a true friend) Koos!
Baba! Wise is the voice of our people that says, ‘Mountain never meets
with mountain, but at daybreak or at even man shall meet again with
man.’ Behold! a messenger came up from Natal, ‘Macumazahn is dead!’
cried he. ‘The land knows Macumazahn no more.’ That is years ago. And
now, behold, now in this strange place of stinks I find Macumazahn, my
friend. There is no room for doubt. The brush of the old jackal has
gone a little grey; but is not his eye as keen, and are not his teeth
as sharp? Ha! ha! Macumazahn, mindest thou how thou didst plant the
ball in the eye of the charging buffalo—mindest thou—”

I had let him run on thus because I saw that his enthusiasm was
producing a marked effect upon the minds of the five Wakwafi, who
appeared to understand something of his talk; but now I thought it time
to put a stop to it, for there is nothing that I hate so much as this
Zulu system of extravagant praising—“bongering” as they call it.
“Silence!” I said. “Has all thy noisy talk been stopped up since last I
saw thee that it breaks out thus, and sweeps us away? What doest thou
here with these men—thou whom I left a chief in Zululand? How is it
that thou art far from thine own place, and gathered together with
strangers?”

Umslopogaas leant himself upon the head of his long battleaxe (which
was nothing else but a pole-axe, with a beautiful handle of rhinoceros
horn), and his grim face grew sad.

“My Father,” he answered, “I have a word to tell thee, but I cannot
speak it before these low people (umfagozana),” and he glanced at the
Wakwafi Askari; “it is for thine own ear. My Father, this will I say,”
and here his face grew stern again, “a woman betrayed me to the death,
and covered my name with shame—ay, my own wife, a round-faced girl,
betrayed me; but I escaped from death; ay, I broke from the very hands
of those who came to slay me. I struck but three blows with this mine
axe Inkosikaas—surely my Father will remember it—one to the right, one
to the left, and one in front, and yet I left three men dead. And then
I fled, and, as my Father knows, even now that I am old my feet are as
the feet of the Sassaby,[2] and there breathes not the man who, by
running, can touch me again when once I have bounded from his side. On
I sped, and after me came the messengers of death, and their voice was
as the voice of dogs that hunt. From my own kraal I flew, and, as I
passed, she who had betrayed me was drawing water from the spring. I
fleeted by her like the shadow of Death, and as I went I smote with
mine axe, and lo! her head fell: it fell into the water pan. Then I
fled north. Day after day I journeyed on; for three moons I journeyed,
resting not, stopping not, but running on towards forgetfulness, till I
met the party of the white hunter who is now dead, and am come hither
with his servants. And nought have I brought with me. I who was
high-born, ay, of the blood of Chaka, the great king—a chief, and a
captain of the regiment of the Nkomabakosi—am a wanderer in strange
places, a man without a kraal. Nought have I brought save this mine
axe; of all my belongings this remains alone. They have divided my
cattle; they have taken my wives; and my children know my face no more.
Yet with this axe”—and he swung the formidable weapon round his head,
making the air hiss as he clove it—“will I cut another path to fortune.
I have spoken.”

 [2] One of the fleetest of the African antelopes.—A. Q.

I shook my head at him. “Umslopogaas,” I said, “I know thee from of
old. Ever ambitious, ever plotting to be great, I fear me that thou
hast overreached thyself at last. Years ago, when thou wouldst have
plotted against Cetywayo, son of Panda, I warned thee, and thou didst
listen. But now, when I was not by thee to stay thy hand, thou hast dug
a pit for thine own feet to fall in. Is it not so? But what is done is
done. Who can make the dead tree green, or gaze again upon last year’s
light? Who can recall the spoken word, or bring back the spirit of the
fallen? That which Time swallows comes not up again. Let it be
forgotten!

“And now, behold, Umslopogaas, I know thee for a great warrior and a
brave man, faithful to the death. Even in Zululand, where all the men
are brave, they called thee the ‘Slaughterer’, and at night told
stories round the fire of thy strength and deeds. Hear me now. Thou
seest this great man, my friend”—and I pointed to Sir Henry; “he also
is a warrior as great as thou, and, strong as thou art, he could throw
thee over his shoulder. Incubu is his name. And thou seest this one
also; him with the round stomach, the shining eye, and the pleasant
face. Bougwan (glass eye) is his name, and a good man is he and a true,
being of a curious tribe who pass their life upon the water, and live
in floating kraals.

“Now, we three whom thou seest would travel inland, past Dongo Egere,
the great white mountain (Mt Kenia), and far into the unknown beyond.
We know not what we shall find there; we go to hunt and seek
adventures, and new places, being tired of sitting still, with the same
old things around us. Wilt thou come with us? To thee shall be given
command of all our servants; but what shall befall thee, that I know
not. Once before we three journeyed thus, in search of adventure, and
we took with us a man such as thou—one Umbopa; and, behold, we left him
the king of a great country, with twenty Impis (regiments), each of
3,000 plumed warriors, waiting on his word. How it shall go with thee,
I know not; mayhap death awaits thee and us. Wilt thou throw thyself to
Fortune and come, or fearest thou, Umslopogaas?”

The great man smiled. “Thou art not altogether right, Macumazahn,” he
said; “I have plotted in my time, but it was not ambition that led me
to my fall; but, shame on me that I should have to say it, a fair
woman’s face. Let it pass. So we are going to see something like the
old times again, Macumazahn, when we fought and hunted in Zululand? Ay,
I will come. Come life, come death, what care I, so that the blows fall
fast and the blood runs red? I grow old, I grow old, and I have not
fought enough! And yet am I a warrior among warriors; see my scars”—and
he pointed to countless cicatrices, stabs and cuts, that marked the
skin of his chest and legs and arms. “See the hole in my head; the
brains gushed out therefrom, yet did I slay him who smote, and live.
Knowest thou how many men I have slain, in fair hand-to-hand combat,
Macumazahn? See, here is the tale of them”—and he pointed to long rows
of notches cut in the rhinoceros-horn handle of his axe. “Number them,
Macumazahn—one hundred and three—and I have never counted but those
whom I have ripped open,[3] nor have I reckoned those whom another man
had struck.”

 [3] Alluding to the Zulu custom of opening the stomach of a dead foe.
 They have a superstition that, if this is not done, as the body of
 their enemy swells up so will the bodies of those who killed him swell
 up.—A. Q.

“Be silent,” I said, for I saw that he was getting the blood-fever on
him; “be silent; well art thou called the ‘Slaughterer’. We would not
hear of thy deeds of blood. Remember, if thou comest with us, we fight
not save in self-defence. Listen, we need servants. These men,” and I
pointed to the Wakwafi, who had retired a little way during our
“indaba” (talk), “say they will not come.”

“Will not come!” shouted Umslopogaas; “where is the dog who says he
will not come when my Father orders? Here, thou”—and with a single
bound he sprang upon the Wakwafi with whom I had first spoken, and,
seizing him by the arm, dragged him towards us. “Thou dog!” he said,
giving the terrified man a shake, “didst thou say that thou wouldst not
go with my Father? Say it once more and I will choke thee”—and his long
fingers closed round his throat as he said it—“thee, and those with
thee. Hast thou forgotten how I served thy brother?”

“Nay, we will come with the white man,” gasped the man.

“White man!” went on Umslopogaas, in simulated fury, which a very
little provocation would have made real enough; “of whom speakest thou,
insolent dog?”

“Nay, we will go with the great chief.”

“So!” said Umslopogaas, in a quiet voice, as he suddenly released his
hold, so that the man fell backward. “I thought you would.”

“That man Umslopogaas seems to have a curious moral ascendency over his
companions,” Good afterwards remarked thoughtfully.




CHAPTER II.
THE BLACK HAND


In due course we left Lamu, and ten days afterwards we found ourselves
at a spot called Charra, on the Tana River, having gone through many
adventures which need not be recorded here. Amongst other things we
visited a ruined city, of which there are many on this coast, and which
must once, to judge from their extent and the numerous remains of
mosques and stone houses, have been very populous places. These ruined
cities are immeasurably ancient, having, I believe, been places of
wealth and importance as far back as the Old Testament times, when they
were centres of trade with India and elsewhere. But their glory has
departed now—the slave trade has finished them—and where wealthy
merchants from all parts of the then civilized world stood and
bargained in the crowded market-places, the lion holds his court at
night, and instead of the chattering of slaves and the eager voices of
the bidders, his awful note goes echoing down the ruined corridors. At
this particular place we discovered on a mound, covered up with rank
growth and rubbish, two of the most beautiful stone doorways that it is
possible to conceive. The carving on them was simply exquisite, and I
only regret that we had no means of getting them away. No doubt they
had once been the entrances to a palace, of which, however, no traces
were now to be seen, though probably its ruins lay under the rising
mound.

Gone! quite gone! the way that everything must go. Like the nobles and
the ladies who lived within their gates, these cities have had their
day, and now they are as Babylon and Nineveh, and as London and Paris
will one day be. Nothing may endure. That is the inexorable law. Men
and women, empires and cities, thrones, principalities, and powers,
mountains, rivers, and unfathomed seas, worlds, spaces, and universes,
all have their day, and all must go. In this ruined and forgotten place
the moralist may behold a symbol of the universal destiny. For this
system of ours allows no room for standing still—nothing can loiter on
the road and check the progress of things upwards towards Life, or the
rush of things downwards towards Death. The stern policeman Fate moves
us and them on, on, uphill and downhill and across the level; there is
no resting-place for the weary feet, till at last the abyss swallows
us, and from the shores of the Transitory we are hurled into the sea of
the Eternal.

At Charra we had a violent quarrel with the headman of the bearers we
had hired to go as far as this, and who now wished to extort large
extra payment from us. In the result he threatened to set the
Masai—about whom more anon—on to us. That night he, with all our hired
bearers, ran away, stealing most of the goods which had been entrusted
to them to carry. Luckily, however, they had not happened to steal our
rifles, ammunition, and personal effects; not because of any delicacy
of feeling on their part, but owing to the fact that they chanced to be
in the charge of the five Wakwafis. After that, it was clear to us that
we had had enough of caravans and of bearers. Indeed, we had not much
left for a caravan to carry. And yet, how were we to get on?

It was Good who solved the question. “Here is water,” he said, pointing
to the Tana River; “and yesterday I saw a party of natives hunting
hippopotami in canoes. I understand that Mr Mackenzie’s mission station
is on the Tana River. Why not get into canoes and paddle up to it?”

This brilliant suggestion was, needless to say, received with
acclamation; and I instantly set to work to buy suitable canoes from
the surrounding natives. I succeeded after a delay of three days in
obtaining two large ones, each hollowed out of a single log of some
light wood, and capable of holding six people and baggage. For these
two canoes we had to pay nearly all our remaining cloth, and also many
other articles.

On the day following our purchase of the two canoes we effected a
start. In the first canoe were Good, Sir Henry, and three of our
Wakwafi followers; in the second myself, Umslopogaas, and the other two
Wakwafis. As our course lay upstream, we had to keep four paddles at
work in each canoe, which meant that the whole lot of us, except Good,
had to row away like galley-slaves; and very exhausting work it was. I
say, except Good, for, of course, the moment that Good got into a boat
his foot was on his native heath, and he took command of the party. And
certainly he worked us. On shore Good is a gentle, mild-mannered man,
and given to jocosity; but, as we found to our cost, Good in a boat was
a perfect demon. To begin with, he knew all about it, and we didn’t. On
all nautical subjects, from the torpedo fittings of a man-of-war down
to the best way of handling the paddle of an African canoe, he was a
perfect mine of information, which, to say the least of it, we were
not. Also his ideas of discipline were of the sternest, and, in short,
he came the royal naval officer over us pretty considerably, and paid
us out amply for all the chaff we were wont to treat him to on land;
but, on the other hand, I am bound to say that he managed the boats
admirably.

After the first day Good succeeded, with the help of some cloth and a
couple of poles, in rigging up a sail in each canoe, which lightened
our labours not a little. But the current ran very strong against us,
and at the best we were not able to make more than twenty miles a day.
Our plan was to start at dawn, and paddle along till about half-past
ten, by which time the sun got too hot to allow of further exertion.
Then we moored our canoes to the bank, and ate our frugal meal; after
which we ate or otherwise amused ourselves till about three o’clock,
when we again started, and rowed till within an hour of sundown, when
we called a halt for the night. On landing in the evening, Good would
at once set to work, with the help of the Askari, to build a little
“scherm”, or small enclosure, fenced with thorn bushes, and to light a
fire. I, with Sir Henry and Umslopogaas, would go out to shoot
something for the pot. Generally this was an easy task, for all sorts
of game abounded on the banks of the Tana. One night Sir Henry shot a
young cow-giraffe, of which the marrow-bones were excellent; on another
I got a couple of waterbuck right and left; and once, to his own
intense satisfaction, Umslopogaas (who, like most Zulus, was a vile
shot with a rifle) managed to kill a fine fat eland with a Martini I
had lent him. Sometimes we varied our food by shooting some
guinea-fowl, or bush-bustard (paau)—both of which were numerous—with a
shot-gun, or by catching a supply of beautiful yellow fish, with which
the waters of the Tana swarmed, and which form, I believe, one of the
chief food-supplies of the crocodiles.

Three days after our start an ominous incident occurred. We were just
drawing in to the bank to make our camp as usual for the night, when we
caught sight of a figure standing on a little knoll not forty yards
away, and intensely watching our approach. One glance was
sufficient—although I was personally unacquainted with the tribe—to
tell me that he was a Masai Elmoran, or young warrior. Indeed, had I
had any doubts, they would have quickly been dispelled by the terrified
ejaculation of “_Masai!_” that burst simultaneously from the lips of
our Wakwafi followers, who are, as I think I have said, themselves
bastard Masai.

And what a figure he presented as he stood there in his savage
war-gear! Accustomed as I have been to savages all my life, I do not
think that I have ever before seen anything quite so ferocious or
awe-inspiring. To begin with, the man was enormously tall, quite as
tall as Umslopogaas, I should say, and beautifully, though somewhat
slightly, shaped; but with the face of a devil. In his right hand he
held a spear about five and a half feet long, the blade being two and a
half feet in length, by nearly three inches in width, and having an
iron spike at the end of the handle that measured more than a foot. On
his left arm was a large and well-made elliptical shield of buffalo
hide, on which were painted strange heraldic-looking devices. On his
shoulders was a huge cape of hawk’s feathers, and round his neck was a
“naibere”, or strip of cotton, about seventeen feet long, by one and a
half broad, with a stripe of colour running down the middle of it. The
tanned goatskin robe, which formed his ordinary attire in times of
peace, was tied lightly round his waist, so as to serve the purposes of
a belt, and through it were stuck, on the right and left sides
respectively, his short pear-shaped sime, or sword, which is made of a
single piece of steel, and carried in a wooden sheath, and an enormous
knobkerrie. But perhaps the most remarkable feature of his attire
consisted of a headdress of ostrich-feathers, which was fixed on the
chin, and passed in front of the ears to the forehead, and, being
shaped like an ellipse, completely framed the face, so that the
diabolical countenance appeared to project from a sort of feather
fire-screen. Round the ankles he wore black fringes of hair, and,
projecting from the upper portion of the calves, to which they were
attached, were long spurs like spikes, from which flowed down tufts of
the beautiful black and waving hair of the Colobus monkey. Such was the
elaborate array of the Masai Elmoran who stood watching the approach of
our two canoes, but it is one which, to be appreciated, must be seen;
only those who see it do not often live to describe it. Of course I
could not make out all these details of his full dress on the occasion
of this my first introduction, being, indeed, amply taken up with the
consideration of the general effect, but I had plenty of subsequent
opportunities of becoming acquainted with the items that went to make
it up.

Whilst we were hesitating what to do, the Masai warrior drew himself up
in a dignified fashion, shook his huge spear at us, and, turning,
vanished on the further side of the slope.

“Hulloa!” holloaed Sir Henry from the other boat; “our friend the
caravan leader has been as good as his word, and set the Masai after
us. Do you think it will be safe to go ashore?”

I did not think it would be at all safe; but, on the other hand, we had
no means of cooking in the canoes, and nothing that we could eat raw,
so it was difficult to know what to do. At last Umslopogaas simplified
matters by volunteering to go and reconnoitre, which he did, creeping
off into the bush like a snake, while we hung off in the stream waiting
for him. In half an hour he returned, and told us that there was not a
Masai to be seen anywhere about, but that he had discovered a spot
where they had recently been encamped, and that from various
indications he judged that they must have moved on an hour or so
before; the man we saw having, no doubt, been left to report upon our
movements.

Thereupon we landed; and, having posted a sentry, proceeded to cook and
eat our evening meal. This done, we took the situation into our serious
consideration. Of course, it was possible that the apparition of the
Masai warrior had nothing to do with us, that he was merely one of a
band bent upon some marauding and murdering expedition against another
tribe. But when we recalled the threat of the caravan leader, and
reflected on the ominous way in which the warrior had shaken his spear
at us, this did not appear very probable. On the contrary, what did
seem probable was that the party was after us and awaiting a favourable
opportunity to attack us. This being so, there were two things that we
could do—one of which was to go on, and the other to go back. The
latter idea was, however, rejected at once, it being obvious that we
should encounter as many dangers in retreat as in advance; and,
besides, we had made up our minds to journey onwards at any price.
Under these circumstances, however, we did not consider it safe to
sleep ashore, so we got into our canoes, and, paddling out into the
middle of the stream, which was not very wide here, managed to anchor
them by means of big stones fastened to ropes made of coconut-fibre, of
which there were several fathoms in each canoe.

Here the mosquitoes nearly ate us up alive, and this, combined with
anxiety as to our position, effectually prevented me from sleeping as
the others were doing, notwithstanding the attacks of the aforesaid
Tana mosquitoes. And so I lay awake, smoking and reflecting on many
things, but, being of a practical turn of mind, chiefly on how we were
to give those Masai villains the slip. It was a beautiful moonlight
night, and, notwithstanding the mosquitoes, and the great risk we were
running from fever from sleeping in such a spot, and forgetting that I
had the cramp very badly in my right leg from squatting in a
constrained position in the canoe, and that the Wakwafi who was
sleeping beside me smelt horribly, I really began to enjoy myself. The
moonbeams played upon the surface of the running water that speeded
unceasingly past us towards the sea, like men’s lives towards the
grave, till it glittered like a wide sheet of silver, that is in the
open where the trees threw no shadows. Near the banks, however, it was
very dark, and the night wind sighed sadly in the reeds. To our left,
on the further side of the river, was a little sandy bay which was
clear of trees, and here I could make out the forms of numerous
antelopes advancing to the water, till suddenly there came an ominous
roar, whereupon they all made off hurriedly. Then after a pause I
caught sight of the massive form of His Majesty the Lion, coming down
to drink his fill after meat. Presently he moved on, then came a
crashing of the reeds about fifty yards above us, and a few minutes
later a huge black mass rose out of the water, about twenty yards from
me, and snorted. It was the head of a hippopotamus. Down it went
without a sound, only to rise again within five yards of where I sat.
This was decidedly too near to be comfortable, more especially as the
hippopotamus was evidently animated by intense curiosity to know what
on earth our canoes were. He opened his great mouth, to yawn, I
suppose, and gave me an excellent view of his ivories; and I could not
help reflecting how easily he could crunch up our frail canoe with a
single bite. Indeed, I had half a mind to give him a ball from my
eight-bore, but on reflection determined to let him alone unless he
actually charged the boat. Presently he sank again as noiselessly as
before, and I saw no more of him. Just then, on looking towards the
bank on our right, I fancied that I caught sight of a dark figure
flitting between the tree trunks. I have very keen sight, and I was
almost sure that I saw something, but whether it was bird, beast, or
man I could not say. At the moment, however, a dark cloud passed over
the moon, and I saw no more of it. Just then, too, although all the
other sounds of the forest had ceased, a species of horned owl with
which I was well acquainted began to hoot with great persistency. After
that, save for the rustling of trees and reeds when the wind caught
them, there was complete silence.

But somehow, in the most unaccountable way, I had suddenly become
nervous. There was no particular reason why I should be, beyond the
ordinary reasons which surround the Central African traveller, and yet
I undoubtedly was. If there is one thing more than another of which I
have the most complete and entire scorn and disbelief, it is of
presentiments, and yet here I was all of a sudden filled with and
possessed by a most undoubted presentiment of approaching evil. I would
not give way to it, however, although I felt the cold perspiration
stand out upon my forehead. I would not arouse the others. Worse and
worse I grew, my pulse fluttered like a dying man’s, my nerves thrilled
with the horrible sense of impotent terror which anybody who is subject
to nightmare will be familiar with, but still my will triumphed over my
fears, and I lay quiet (for I was half sitting, half lying, in the bow
of the canoe), only turning my face so as to command a view of
Umslopogaas and the two Wakwafi who were sleeping alongside of and
beyond me.

In the distance I heard a hippopotamus splash faintly, then the owl
hooted again in a kind of unnatural screaming note,[4] and the wind
began to moan plaintively through the trees, making a heart-chilling
music. Above was the black bosom of the cloud, and beneath me swept the
black flood of the water, and I felt as though I and Death were utterly
alone between them. It was very desolate.

 [4] No doubt this owl was a wingless bird. I afterwards learnt that
 the hooting of an owl is a favourite signal among the Masai tribes.—A.
 Q.

Suddenly my blood seemed to freeze in my veins, and my heart to stand
still. Was it fancy, or were we moving? I turned my eyes to look for
the other canoe which should be alongside of us. I could not see it,
but instead I saw a lean and clutching black hand lifting itself above
the gunwale of the little boat. Surely it was a nightmare! At the same
instant a dim but devilish-looking face appeared to rise out of the
water, and then came a lurch of the canoe, the quick flash of a knife,
and an awful yell from the Wakwafi who was sleeping by my side (the
same poor fellow whose odour had been annoying me), and something warm
spurted into my face. In an instant the spell was broken; I knew that
it was no nightmare, but that we were attacked by swimming Masai.
Snatching at the first weapon that came to hand, which happened to be
Umslopogaas’ battleaxe, I struck with all my force in the direction in
which I had seen the flash of the knife. The blow fell upon a man’s
arm, and, catching it against the thick wooden gunwale of the canoe,
completely severed it from the body just above the wrist. As for its
owner, he uttered no sound or cry. Like a ghost he came, and like a
ghost he went, leaving behind him a bloody hand still gripping a great
knife, or rather a short sword, that was buried in the heart of our
poor servant.

Instantly there arose a hubbub and confusion, and I fancied, rightly or
wrongly, that I made out several dark heads gliding away towards the
right-hand bank, whither we were rapidly drifting, for the rope by
which we were moored had been severed with a knife. As soon as I had
realised this fact, I also realised that the scheme had been to cut the
boat loose so that it should drift on to the right bank (as it would
have done with the natural swing of the current), where no doubt a
party of Masai were waiting to dig their shovel-headed spears into us.
Seizing one paddle myself, I told Umslopogaas to take another (for the
remaining Askari was too frightened and bewildered to be of any use),
and together we rowed vigorously out towards the middle of the stream;
and not an instant too soon, for in another minute we should have been
aground, and then there would have been an end of us.

As soon as we were well out, we set to work to paddle the canoe
upstream again to where the other was moored; and very hard and
dangerous work it was in the dark, and with nothing but the notes of
Good’s stentorian shouts, which he kept firing off at intervals like a
fog-horn, to guide us. But at last we fetched up, and were thankful to
find that they had not been molested at all. No doubt the owner of the
same hand that severed our rope should have severed theirs also, but
was led away from his purpose by an irresistible inclination to murder
when he got the chance, which, while it cost us a man and him his hand,
undoubtedly saved all the rest of us from massacre. Had it not been for
that ghastly apparition over the side of the boat—an apparition that I
shall never forget till my dying hour—the canoe would undoubtedly have
drifted ashore before I realised what had happened, and this history
would never have been written by me.




CHAPTER III.
THE MISSION STATION


We made the remains of our rope fast to the other canoe, and sat
waiting for the dawn and congratulating ourselves upon our merciful
escape, which really seemed to result more from the special favour of
Providence than from our own care or prowess. At last it came, and I
have not often been more grateful to see the light, though so far as my
canoe was concerned it revealed a ghastly sight. There in the bottom of
the little boat lay the unfortunate Askari, the sime, or sword, in his
bosom, and the severed hand gripping the handle. I could not bear the
sight, so hauling up the stone which had served as an anchor to the
other canoe, we made it fast to the murdered man and dropped him
overboard, and down he went to the bottom, leaving nothing but a train
of bubbles behind him. Alas! when our time comes, most of us like him
leave nothing but bubbles behind, to show that we have been, and the
bubbles soon burst. The hand of his murderer we threw into the stream,
where it slowly sank. The sword, of which the handle was ivory, inlaid
with gold (evidently Arab work), I kept and used as a hunting-knife,
and very useful it proved.

Then, a man having been transferred to my canoe, we once more started
on in very low spirits and not feeling at all comfortable as to the
future, but fondly hoping to arrive at the “Highlands” station by
night. To make matters worse, within an hour of sunrise it came on to
rain in torrents, wetting us to the skin, and even necessitating the
occasional baling of the canoes, and as the rain beat down the wind we
could not use the sails, and had to get along as best as we could with
our paddles.

At eleven o’clock we halted on an open piece of ground on the left bank
of the river, and, the rain abating a little, managed to make a fire
and catch and broil some fish. We did not dare to wander about to
search for game. At two o’clock we got off again, taking a supply of
broiled fish with us, and shortly afterwards the rain came on harder
than ever. Also the river began to get exceedingly difficult to
navigate on account of the numerous rocks, reaches of shallow water,
and the increased force of the current; so that it soon became clear to
us that we should not reach the Rev. Mackenzie’s hospitable roof that
night—a prospect that did not tend to enliven us. Toil as we would, we
could not make more than an average of a mile an hour, and at five
o’clock in the afternoon (by which time we were all utterly worn out)
we reckoned that we were still quite ten miles below the station. This
being so, we set to work to make the best arrangements we could for the
night. After our recent experience, we simply did not dare to land,
more especially as the banks of the Tana were clothed with dense bush
that would have given cover to five thousand Masai, and at first I
thought that we were going to have another night of it in the canoes.
Fortunately, however, we espied a little rocky islet, not more than
fifteen miles or so square, situated nearly in the middle of the river.
For this we paddled, and, making fast the canoes, landed and made
ourselves as comfortable as circumstances would permit, which was very
uncomfortable indeed. As for the weather, it continued to be simply
vile, the rain coming down in sheets till we were chilled to the
marrow, and utterly preventing us from lighting a fire. There was,
however, one consoling circumstance about this rain; our Askari
declared that nothing would induce the Masai to make an attack in it,
as they intensely disliked moving about in the wet, perhaps, as Good
suggested, because they hate the idea of washing. We ate some insipid
and sodden cold fish—that is, with the exception of Umslopogaas, who,
like most Zulus, cannot bear fish—and took a pull of brandy, of which
we fortunately had a few bottles left, and then began what, with one
exception—when we same three white men nearly perished of cold on the
snow of Sheba’s Breast in the course of our journey to Kukuanaland—was,
I think, the most trying night I ever experienced. It seemed absolutely
endless, and once or twice I feared that two of the Askari would have
died of the wet, cold, and exposure. Indeed, had it not been for timely
doses of brandy I am sure that they would have died, for no African
people can stand much exposure, which first paralyses and then kills
them. I could see that even that iron old warrior Umslopogaas felt it
keenly; though, in strange contrast to the Wakwafis, who groaned and
bemoaned their fate unceasingly, he never uttered a single complaint.
To make matters worse, about one in the morning we again heard the
owl’s ominous hooting, and had at once to prepare ourselves for another
attack; though, if it had been attempted, I do not think that we could
have offered a very effective resistance. But either the owl was a real
one this time, or else the Masai were themselves too miserable to think
of offensive operations, which, indeed, they rarely, if ever, undertake
in bush veldt. At any rate, we saw nothing of them.

At last the dawn came gliding across the water, wrapped in wreaths of
ghostly mist, and, with the daylight, the rain ceased; and then, out
came the glorious sun, sucking up the mists and warming the chill air.
Benumbed, and utterly exhausted, we dragged ourselves to our feet, and
went and stood in the bright rays, and were thankful for them. I can
quite understand how it is that primitive people become sun
worshippers, especially if their conditions of life render them liable
to exposure.

In half an hour more we were once again making fair progress with the
help of a good wind. Our spirits had returned with the sunshine, and we
were ready to laugh at difficulties and dangers that had been almost
crushing on the previous day.

And so we went on cheerily till about eleven o’clock. Just as we were
thinking of halting as usual, to rest and try to shoot something to
eat, a sudden bend in the river brought us in sight of a
substantial-looking European house with a veranda round it, splendidly
situated upon a hill, and surrounded by a high stone wall with a ditch
on the outer side. Right against and overshadowing the house was an
enormous pine, the top of which we had seen through a glass for the
last two days, but of course without knowing that it marked the site of
the mission station. I was the first to see the house, and could not
restrain myself from giving a hearty cheer, in which the others,
including the natives, joined lustily. There was no thought of halting
now. On we laboured, for, unfortunately, though the house seemed quite
near, it was still a long way off by river, until at last, by one
o’clock, we found ourselves at the bottom of the slope on which the
building stood. Running the canoes to the bank, we disembarked, and
were just hauling them up on to the shore, when we perceived three
figures, dressed in ordinary English-looking clothes, hurrying down
through a grove of trees to meet us.

“A gentleman, a lady, and a little girl,” ejaculated Good, after
surveying the trio through his eyeglass, “walking in a civilized
fashion, through a civilized garden, to meet us in this place. Hang me,
if this isn’t the most curious thing we have seen yet!”

Good was right: it certainly did seem odd and out of place—more like a
scene out of a dream or an Italian opera than a real tangible fact; and
the sense of unreality was not lessened when we heard ourselves
addressed in good broad Scotch, which, however, I cannot reproduce.

“How do you do, sirs,” said Mr Mackenzie, a grey-haired, angular man,
with a kindly face and red cheeks; “I hope I see you very well. My
natives told me an hour ago they spied two canoes with white men in
them coming up the river; so we have just come down to meet you.”

“And it is very glad that we are to see a white face again, let me tell
you,” put in the lady—a charming and refined-looking person.

We took off our hats in acknowledgment, and proceeded to introduce
ourselves.

“And now,” said Mr Mackenzie, “you must all be hungry and weary; so
come on, gentlemen, come on, and right glad we are to see you. The last
white who visited us was Alphonse—you will see Alphonse presently—and
that was a year ago.”

Meanwhile we had been walking up the slope of the hill, the lower
portion of which was fenced off, sometimes with quince fences and
sometimes with rough stone walls, into Kaffir gardens, just now full of
crops of mealies, pumpkins, potatoes, etc. In the corners of these
gardens were groups of neat mushroom-shaped huts, occupied by Mr
Mackenzie’s mission natives, whose women and children came pouring out
to meet us as we walked. Through the centre of the gardens ran the
roadway up which we were walking. It was bordered on each side by a
line of orange trees, which, although they had only been planted ten
years, had in the lovely climate of the uplands below Mt Kenia, the
base of which is about 5,000 feet above the coastline level, already
grown to imposing proportions, and were positively laden with golden
fruit. After a stiffish climb of a quarter of a mile or so—for the
hillside was steep—we came to a splendid quince fence, also covered
with fruit, which enclosed, Mr Mackenzie told us, a space of about four
acres of ground that contained his private garden, house, church, and
outbuildings, and, indeed, the whole hilltop. And what a garden it was!
I have always loved a good garden, and I could have thrown up my hands
for joy when I saw Mr Mackenzie’s. First there were rows upon rows of
standard European fruit-trees, all grafted; for on top of this hill the
climate was so temperate that nearly all the English vegetables, trees,
and flowers flourished luxuriantly, even including several varieties of
the apple, which, generally, runs to wood in a warm climate and
obstinately refuses to fruit. Then there were strawberries and tomatoes
(such tomatoes!), and melons and cucumbers, and, indeed, every sort of
vegetable and fruit.

“Well, you have something like a garden!” I said, overpowered with
admiration not untouched by envy.

“Yes,” answered the missionary, “it is a very good garden, and has well
repaid my labour; but it is the climate that I have to thank. If you
stick a peach-stone into the ground it will bear fruit the fourth year,
and a rose-cutting will bloom in a year. It is a lovely clime.”

Just then we came to a ditch about ten feet wide, and full of water, on
the other side of which was a loopholed stone wall eight feet high, and
with sharp flints plentifully set in mortar on the coping.

“There,” said Mr Mackenzie, pointing to the ditch and wall, “this is my
_magnum opus;_ at least, this and the church, which is the other side
of the house. It took me and twenty natives two years to dig the ditch
and build the wall, but I never felt safe till it was done; and now I
can defy all the savages in Africa, for the spring that fills the ditch
is inside the wall, and bubbles out at the top of the hill winter and
summer alike, and I always keep a store of four months’ provision in
the house.”

Crossing over a plank and through a very narrow opening in the wall, we
entered into what Mrs Mackenzie called _her_ domain—namely, the flower
garden, the beauty of which is really beyond my power to describe. I do
not think I ever saw such roses, gardenias, or camellias (all reared
from seeds or cuttings sent from England); and there was also a patch
given up to a collection of bulbous roots mostly collected by Miss
Flossie, Mr Mackenzie’s little daughter, from the surrounding country,
some of which were surpassingly beautiful. In the middle of this
garden, and exactly opposite the veranda, a beautiful fountain of clear
water bubbled up from the ground, and fell into a stone-work basin
which had been carefully built to receive it, whence the overflow found
its way by means of a drain to the moat round the outer wall, this moat
in its turn serving as a reservoir, whence an unfailing supply of water
was available to irrigate all the gardens below. The house itself, a
massively built single-storied building, was roofed with slabs of
stone, and had a handsome veranda in front. It was built on three sides
of a square, the fourth side being taken up by the kitchens, which
stood separate from the house—a very good plan in a hot country. In the
centre of this square thus formed was, perhaps, the most remarkable
object that we had yet seen in this charming place, and that was a
single tree of the conifer tribe, varieties of which grow freely on the
highlands of this part of Africa. This splendid tree, which Mr
Mackenzie informed us was a landmark for fifty miles round, and which
we had ourselves seen for the last forty miles of our journey, must
have been nearly three hundred feet in height, the trunk measuring
about sixteen feet in diameter at a yard from the ground. For some
seventy feet it rose a beautiful tapering brown pillar without a single
branch, but at that height splendid dark green boughs, which, looked at
from below, had the appearance of gigantic fern-leaves, sprang out
horizontally from the trunk, projecting right over the house and
flower-garden, to both of which they furnished a grateful proportion of
shade, without—being so high up—offering any impediment to the passage
of light and air.

“What a beautiful tree!” exclaimed Sir Henry.

“Yes, you are right; it is a beautiful tree. There is not another like
it in all the country round, that I know of,” answered Mr Mackenzie. “I
call it my watch tower. As you see, I have a rope ladder fixed to the
lowest bough; and if I want to see anything that is going on within
fifteen miles or so, all I have to do is to run up it with a spyglass.
But you must be hungry, and I am sure the dinner is cooked. Come in, my
friends; it is but a rough place, but well enough for these savage
parts; and I can tell you what, we have got—a French cook.” And he led
the way on to the veranda.

As I was following him, and wondering what on earth he could mean by
this, there suddenly appeared, through the door that opened on to the
veranda from the house, a dapper little man, dressed in a neat blue
cotton suit, with shoes made of tanned hide, and remarkable for a
bustling air and most enormous black mustachios, shaped into an upward
curve, and coming to a point for all the world like a pair of
buffalo-horns.

“Madame bids me for to say that dinnar is sarved. Messieurs, my
compliments;” then suddenly perceiving Umslopogaas, who was loitering
along after us and playing with his battleaxe, he threw up his hands in
astonishment. “_Ah, mais quel homme!_” he ejaculated in French, “_quel
sauvage affreux!_ Take but note of his huge choppare and the great pit
in his head.”

“Ay,” said Mr Mackenzie; “what are you talking about, Alphonse?”

“Talking about!” replied the little Frenchman, his eyes still fixed
upon Umslopogaas, whose general appearance seemed to fascinate him;
“why I talk of him”—and he rudely pointed—“of _ce monsieur noir_.”

At this everybody began to laugh, and Umslopogaas, perceiving that he
was the object of remark, frowned ferociously, for he had a most lordly
dislike of anything like a personal liberty.

“_Parbleu!_” said Alphonse, “he is angered—he makes the grimace. I like
not his air. I vanish.” And he did with considerable rapidity.

Mr Mackenzie joined heartily in the shout of laughter which we indulged
in. “He is a queer character—Alphonse,” he said. “By and by I will tell
you his history; in the meanwhile let us try his cooking.”

“Might I ask,” said Sir Henry, after we had eaten a most excellent
dinner, “how you came to have a French cook in these wilds?”

“Oh,” answered Mrs Mackenzie, “he arrived here of his own accord about
a year ago, and asked to be taken into our service. He had got into
some trouble in France, and fled to Zanzibar, where he found an
application had been made by the French Government for his extradition.
Whereupon he rushed off up-country, and fell in, when nearly starved,
with our caravan of men, who were bringing us our annual supply of
goods, and was brought on here. You should get him to tell you the
story.”

When dinner was over we lit our pipes, and Sir Henry proceeded to give
our host a description of our journey up here, over which he looked
very grave.

“It is evident to me,” he said, “that those rascally Masai are
following you, and I am very thankful that you have reached this house
in safety. I do not think that they will dare to attack you here. It is
unfortunate, though, that nearly all my men have gone down to the coast
with ivory and goods. There are two hundred of them in the caravan, and
the consequence is that I have not more than twenty men available for
defensive purposes in case they should attack us. But, still, I will
just give a few orders;” and, calling a black man who was loitering
about outside in the garden, he went to the window, and addressed him
in a Swahili dialect. The man listened, and then saluted and departed.

“I am sure I devoutly hope that we shall bring no such calamity upon
you,” said I, anxiously, when he had taken his seat again. “Rather than
bring those bloodthirsty villains about your ears, we will move on and
take our chance.”

“You will do nothing of the sort. If the Masai come, they come, and
there is an end on it; and I think we can give them a pretty warm
greeting. I would not show any man the door for all the Masai in the
world.”

“That reminds me,” I said, “the Consul at Lamu told me that he had had
a letter from you, in which you said that a man had arrived here who
reported that he had come across a white people in the interior. Do you
think that there was any truth in his story? I ask, because I have once
or twice in my life heard rumours from natives who have come down from
the far north of the existence of such a race.”

Mr Mackenzie, by way of answer, went out of the room and returned,
bringing with him a most curious sword. It was long, and all the blade,
which was very thick and heavy, was to within a quarter of an inch of
the cutting edge worked into an ornamental pattern exactly as we work
soft wood with a fret-saw, the steel, however, being invariably pierced
in such a way as not to interfere with the strength of the sword. This
in itself was sufficiently curious, but what was still more so was that
all the edges of the hollow spaces cut through the substance of the
blade were most beautifully inlaid with gold, which was in some way
that I cannot understand welded on to the steel.[5]

 [5] Since I saw the above I have examined hundreds of these swords,
 but have never been able to discover how the gold plates were inlaid
 in the fretwork. The armourers who make them in Zu-vendis bind
 themselves by oath not to reveal the secret.—A. Q.

“There,” said Mr Mackenzie, “did you ever see a sword like that?”

We all examined it and shook our heads.

“Well, I have got it to show you, because this is what the man who said
he had seen the white people brought with him, and because it does more
or less give an air of truth to what I should otherwise have set down
as a lie. Look here; I will tell you all that I know about the matter,
which is not much. One afternoon, just before sunset, I was sitting on
the veranda, when a poor, miserable, starved-looking man came limping
up and squatted down before me. I asked him where he came from and what
he wanted, and thereon he plunged into a long rambling narrative about
how he belonged to a tribe far in the north, and how his tribe was
destroyed by another tribe, and he with a few other survivors driven
still further north past a lake named Laga. Thence, it appears, he made
his way to another lake that lay up in the mountains, ‘a lake without a
bottom’ he called it, and here his wife and brother died of an
infectious sickness—probably smallpox—whereon the people drove him out
of their villages into the wilderness, where he wandered miserably over
mountains for ten days, after which he got into dense thorn forest, and
was one day found there by some _white men_ who were hunting, and who
took him to a place where all the people were white and lived in stone
houses. Here he remained a week shut up in a house, till one night a
man with a white beard, whom he understood to be a ‘medicine-man’, came
and inspected him, after which he was led off and taken through the
thorn forest to the confines of the wilderness, and given food and this
sword (at least so he said), and turned loose.”

“Well,” said Sir Henry, who had been listening with breathless
interest, “and what did he do then?”

“Oh! he seems, according to his account, to have gone through
sufferings and hardships innumerable, and to have lived for weeks on
roots and berries, and such things as he could catch and kill. But
somehow he did live, and at last by slow degrees made his way south and
reached this place. What the details of his journey were I never
learnt, for I told him to return on the morrow, bidding one of my
headmen look after him for the night. The headman took him away, but
the poor man had the itch so badly that the headman’s wife would not
have him in the hut for fear of catching it, so he was given a blanket
and told to sleep outside. As it happened, we had a lion hanging about
here just then, and most unhappily he winded this unfortunate wanderer,
and, springing on him, bit his head almost off without the people in
the hut knowing anything about it, and there was an end of him and his
story about the white people; and whether or no there is any truth in
it is more than I can tell you. What do you think, Mr Quatermain?”

I shook my head, and answered, “I don’t know. There are so many queer
things hidden away in the heart of this great continent that I should
be sorry to assert that there was no truth in it. Anyhow, we mean to
try and find out. We intend to journey to Lekakisera, and thence, if we
live to get so far, to this Lake Laga; and, if there are any white
people beyond, we will do our best to find them.”

“You are very venturesome people,” said Mr Mackenzie, with a smile, and
the subject dropped.




CHAPTER IV.
ALPHONSE AND HIS ANNETTE


After dinner we thoroughly inspected all the outbuildings and grounds
of the station, which I consider the most successful as well as the
most beautiful place of the sort that I have seen in Africa. We then
returned to the veranda, where we found Umslopogaas taking advantage of
this favourable opportunity to clean all the rifles thoroughly. This
was the only _work_ that he ever did or was asked to do, for as a Zulu
chief it was beneath his dignity to work with his hands; but such as it
was he did it very well. It was a curious sight to see the great Zulu
sitting there upon the floor, his battleaxe resting against the wall
behind him, whilst his long aristocratic-looking hands were busily
employed, delicately and with the utmost care, cleaning the mechanism
of the breech-loaders. He had a name for each gun. One—a double
four-bore belonging to Sir Henry—was the Thunderer; another, my 500
Express, which had a peculiarly sharp report, was “the little one who
spoke like a whip”; the Winchester repeaters were “the women, who
talked so fast that you could not tell one word from another”; the six
Martinis were “the common people”; and so on with them all. It was very
curious to hear him addressing each gun as he cleaned it, as though it
were an individual, and in a vein of the quaintest humour. He did the
same with his battle-axe, which he seemed to look upon as an intimate
friend, and to which he would at times talk by the hour, going over all
his old adventures with it—and dreadful enough some of them were. By a
piece of grim humour, he had named this axe “Inkosi-kaas”, which is the
Zulu word for chieftainess. For a long while I could not make out why
he gave it such a name, and at last I asked him, when he informed me
that the axe was very evidently feminine, because of her womanly habit
of prying very deep into things, and that she was clearly a
chieftainess because all men fell down before her, struck dumb at the
sight of her beauty and power. In the same way he would consult
“Inkosi-kaas” if in any dilemma; and when I asked him why he did so, he
informed me it was because she must needs be wise, having “looked into
so many people’s brains”.

I took up the axe and closely examined this formidable weapon. It was,
as I have said, of the nature of a pole-axe. The haft, made out of an
enormous rhinoceros horn, was three feet three inches long, about an
inch and a quarter thick, and with a knob at the end as large as a
Maltese orange, left there to prevent the hand from slipping. This horn
haft, though so massive, was as flexible as cane, and practically
unbreakable; but, to make assurance doubly sure, it was whipped round
at intervals of a few inches with copper wire—all the parts where the
hands grip being thus treated. Just above where the haft entered the
head were scored a number of little nicks, each nick representing a man
killed in battle with the weapon. The axe itself was made of the most
beautiful steel, and apparently of European manufacture, though
Umslopogaas did not know where it came from, having taken it from the
hand of a chief he had killed in battle many years before. It was not
very heavy, the head weighing two and a half pounds, as nearly as I
could judge. The cutting part was slightly concave in shape—not convex,
as is generally the case with savage battle-axes—and sharp as a razor,
measuring five and three-quarter inches across the widest part. From
the back of the axe sprang a stout spike four inches long, for the last
two of which it was hollow, and shaped like a leather punch, with an
opening for anything forced into the hollow at the punch end to be
pushed out above—in fact, in this respect it exactly resembled a
butcher’s pole-axe. It was with this punch end, as we afterwards
discovered, that Umslopogaas usually struck when fighting, driving a
neat round hole in his adversary’s skull, and only using the broad
cutting edge for a circular sweep, or sometimes in a _mêlée_. I think
he considered the punch a neater and more sportsmanlike tool, and it
was from his habit of pecking at his enemy with it that he got his name
of “Woodpecker”. Certainly in his hands it was a terribly efficient
one.

Such was Umslopogaas’ axe, Inkosi-kaas, the most remarkable and fatal
hand-to-hand weapon that I ever saw, and one which he cherished as much
as his own life. It scarcely ever left his hand except when he was
eating, and then he always sat with it under his leg.

Just as I returned his axe to Umslopogaas, Miss Flossie came up and
took me off to see her collection of flowers, African liliums, and
blooming shrubs, some of which are very beautiful, many of the
varieties being quite unknown to me and also, I believe, to botanical
science. I asked her if she had ever seen or heard of the “Goya” lily,
which Central African explorers have told me they have occasionally met
with and whose wonderful loveliness has filled them with astonishment.
This lily, which the natives say blooms only once in ten years,
flourishes in the most arid soil. Compared to the size of the bloom,
the bulb is small, generally weighing about four pounds. As for the
flower itself (which I afterwards saw under circumstances likely to
impress its appearance fixedly in my mind), I know not how to describe
its beauty and splendour, or the indescribable sweetness of its
perfume. The flower—for it has only one bloom—rises from the crown of
the bulb on a thick fleshy and flat-sided stem, the specimen that I saw
measured fourteen inches in diameter, and is somewhat trumpet-shaped
like the bloom of an ordinary “longiflorum” set vertically. First there
is the green sheath, which in its early stage is not unlike that of a
water-lily, but which as the bloom opens splits into four portions and
curls back gracefully towards the stem. Then comes the bloom itself, a
single dazzling arch of white enclosing another cup of richest velvety
crimson, from the heart of which rises a golden-coloured pistil. I have
never seen anything to equal this bloom in beauty or fragrance, and as
I believe it is but little known, I take the liberty to describe it at
length. Looking at it for the first time I well remember that I
realised how even in a flower there dwells something of the majesty of
its Maker. To my great delight Miss Flossie told me that she knew the
flower well and had tried to grow it in her garden, but without
success, adding, however, that as it should be in bloom at this time of
the year she thought that she could procure me a specimen.

After that I fell to asking her if she was not lonely up here among all
these savage people and without any companions of her own age.

“Lonely?” she said. “Oh, indeed no! I am as happy as the day is long,
and besides I have my own companions. Why, I should hate to be buried
in a crowd of white girls all just like myself so that nobody could
tell the difference! Here,” she said, giving her head a little toss, “I
am _I;_ and every native for miles around knows the ‘Water-lily’,—for
that is what they call me—and is ready to do what I want, but in the
books that I have read about little girls in England it is not like
that. Everybody thinks them a trouble, and they have to do what their
schoolmistress likes. Oh! it would break my heart to be put in a cage
like that and not to be free—free as the air.”

“Would you not like to learn?” I asked.

“So I do learn. Father teaches me Latin and French and arithmetic.”

“And are you never afraid among all these wild men?”

“Afraid? Oh no! they never interfere with me. I think they believe that
I am ‘Ngai’ (of the Divinity) because I am so white and have fair hair.
And look here,” and diving her little hand into the bodice of her dress
she produced a double-barrelled nickel-plated Derringer, “I always
carry that loaded, and if anybody tried to touch me I should shoot him.
Once I shot a leopard that jumped upon my donkey as I was riding along.
It frightened me very much, but I shot it in the ear and it fell dead,
and I have its skin upon my bed. Look there!” she went on in an altered
voice, touching me on the arm and pointing to some far-away object, “I
said just now that I had companions; there is one of them.”

I looked, and for the first time there burst upon my sight the glory of
Mount Kenia. Hitherto the mountain had always been hidden in mist, but
now its radiant beauty was unveiled for many thousand feet, although
the base was still wrapped in vapour so that the lofty peak or pillar,
towering nearly twenty thousand feet into the sky, appeared to be a
fairy vision, hanging between earth and heaven, and based upon the
clouds. The solemn majesty and beauty of this white peak are together
beyond the power of my poor pen to describe. There it rose straight and
sheer—a glittering white glory, its crest piercing the very blue of
heaven. As I gazed at it with that little girl I felt my whole heart
lifted up with an indescribable emotion, and for a moment great and
wonderful thoughts seemed to break upon my mind, even as the arrows of
the setting sun were breaking upon Kenia’s snows. Mr Mackenzie’s
natives call the mountain the “Finger of God”, and to me it did seem
eloquent of immortal peace and of the pure high calm that surely lies
above this fevered world. Somewhere I had heard a line of poetry,

A thing of beauty is a joy for ever,

and now it came into my mind, and for the first time I thoroughly
understood what it meant. Base, indeed, would be the man who could look
upon that mighty snow-wreathed pile— that white old tombstone of the
years—and not feel his own utter insignificance, and, by whatever name
he calls Him, worship God in his heart. Such sights are like visions of
the spirit; they throw wide the windows of the chamber of our small
selfishness and let in a breath of that air that rushes round the
rolling spheres, and for a while illumine our darkness with a far-off
gleam of the white light which beats upon the Throne.

Yes, such things of beauty are indeed a joy for ever, and I can well
understand what little Flossie meant when she talked of Kenia as her
companion. As Umslopogaas, savage old Zulu that he was, said when I
pointed out to him the peak hanging in the glittering air: “A man might
look thereon for a thousand years and yet be hungry to see.” But he
gave rather another colour to his poetical idea when he added in a sort
of chant, and with a touch of that weird imagination for which the man
was remarkable, that when he was dead he should like his spirit to sit
upon that snow-clad peak for ever, and to rush down the steep white
sides in the breath of the whirlwind, or on the flash of the lightning,
and “slay, and slay, and slay”.

“Slay what, you old bloodhound?” I asked.

This rather puzzled him, but at length he answered—

“The other shadows.”

“So thou wouldst continue thy murdering even after death?” I said.

“I murder not,” he answered hotly; “I kill in fair fight. Man is born
to kill. He who kills not when his blood is hot is a woman, and no man.
The people who kill not are slaves. I say I kill in fair fight; and
when I am ‘in the shadow’, as you white men say, I hope to go on
killing in fair fight. May my shadow be accursed and chilled to the
bone for ever if it should fall to murdering like a bushman with his
poisoned arrows!” And he stalked away with much dignity, and left me
laughing.

Just then the spies whom our host had sent out in the morning to find
out if there were any traces of our Masai friends about, returned, and
reported that the country had been scoured for fifteen miles round
without a single Elmoran being seen, and that they believed that those
gentry had given up the pursuit and returned whence they came. Mr
Mackenzie gave a sigh of relief when he heard this, and so indeed did
we, for we had had quite enough of the Masai to last us for some time.
Indeed, the general opinion was that, finding we had reached the
mission station in safety, they had, knowing its strength, given up the
pursuit of us as a bad job. How ill-judged that view was the sequel
will show.

After the spies had gone, and Mrs Mackenzie and Flossie had retired for
the night, Alphonse, the little Frenchman, came out, and Sir Henry, who
is a very good French scholar, got him to tell us how he came to visit
Central Africa, which he did in a most extraordinary lingo, that for
the most part I shall not attempt to reproduce.

“My grandfather,” he began, “was a soldier of the Guard, and served
under Napoleon. He was in the retreat from Moscow, and lived for ten
days on his own leggings and a pair he stole from a comrade. He used to
get drunk—he died drunk, and I remember playing at drums on his coffin.
My father—”

Here we suggested that he might skip his ancestry and come to the
point.

“Bien, messieurs!” replied this comical little man, with a polite bow.
“I did only wish to demonstrate that the military principle is not
hereditary. My grandfather was a splendid man, six feet two high, broad
in proportion, a swallower of fire and gaiters. Also he was remarkable
for his moustache. To me there remains the moustache and—nothing more.

“I am, messieurs, a cook, and I was born at Marseilles. In that dear
town I spent my happy youth. For years and years I washed the dishes at
the Hôtel Continental. Ah, those were golden days!” and he sighed. “I
am a Frenchman. Need I say, messieurs, that I admire beauty? Nay, I
adore the fair. Messieurs, we admire all the roses in a garden, but we
pluck one. _I_ plucked one, and alas, messieurs, it pricked my finger.
She was a chambermaid, her name Annette, her figure ravishing, her face
an angel’s, her heart—alas, messieurs, that I should have to own
it!—black and slippery as a patent leather boot. I loved to
desperation, I adored her to despair. She transported me—in every
sense; she inspired me. Never have I cooked as I cooked (for I had been
promoted at the hotel) when Annette, my adored Annette, smiled on me.
Never”—and here his manly voice broke into a sob—“never shall I cook so
well again.” Here he melted into tears.

“Come, cheer up!” said Sir Henry in French, smacking him smartly on the
back. “There’s no knowing what may happen, you know. To judge from your
dinner today, I should say you were in a fair way to recovery.”

Alphonse stopped weeping, and began to rub his back. “Monsieur,” he
said, “doubtless means to console, but his hand is heavy. To continue:
we loved, and were happy in each other’s love. The birds in their
little nest could not be happier than Alphonse and his Annette. Then
came the blow—sapristi!—when I think of it. Messieurs will forgive me
if I wipe away a tear. Mine was an evil number; I was drawn for the
conscription. Fortune would be avenged on me for having won the heart
of Annette.

“The evil moment came; I had to go. I tried to run away, but I was
caught by brutal soldiers, and they banged me with the butt-end of
muskets till my mustachios curled with pain. I had a cousin a
linen-draper, well-to-do, but very ugly. He had drawn a good number,
and sympathized when they thumped me. ‘To thee, my cousin,’ I said, ‘to
thee, in whose veins flows the blue blood of our heroic grandparent, to
thee I consign Annette. Watch over her whilst I hunt for glory in the
bloody field.’

“‘Make your mind easy,’ said he; ‘I will.’ As the sequel shows, he did!

“I went. I lived in barracks on black soup. I am a refined man and a
poet by nature, and I suffered tortures from the coarse horror of my
surroundings. There was a drill sergeant, and he had a cane. Ah, that
cane, how it curled! Alas, never can I forget it!

“One morning came the news; my battalion was ordered to Tonquin. The
drill sergeant and the other coarse monsters rejoiced. I—I made
enquiries about Tonquin. They were not satisfactory. In Tonquin are
savage Chinese who rip you open. My artistic tastes—for I am also an
artist—recoiled from the idea of being ripped open. The great man makes
up his mind quickly. I made up my mind. I determined not to be ripped
open. I deserted.

“I reached Marseilles disguised as an old man. I went to the house of
my cousin—he in whom runs my grandfather’s heroic blood—and there sat
Annette. It was the season of cherries. They took a double stalk. At
each end was a cherry. My cousin put one into his mouth, Annette put
the other in hers. Then they drew the stalks in till their eyes met—and
alas, alas that I should have to say it!—they kissed. The game was a
pretty one, but it filled me with fury. The heroic blood of my
grandfather boiled up in me. I rushed into the kitchen. I struck my
cousin with the old man’s crutch. He fell—I had slain him. Alas, I
believe that I did slay him. Annette screamed. The gendarmes came. I
fled. I reached the harbour. I hid aboard a vessel. The vessel put to
sea. The captain found me and beat me. He took an opportunity. He
posted a letter from a foreign port to the police. He did not put me
ashore because I cooked so well. I cooked for him all the way to
Zanzibar. When I asked for payment he kicked me. The blood of my heroic
grandfather boiled within me, and I shook my fist in his face and vowed
to have my revenge. He kicked me again. At Zanzibar there was a
telegram. I cursed the man who invented telegraphs. Now I curse him
again. I was to be arrested for desertion, for murder, and _que
sais-je?_ I escaped from the prison. I fled, I starved. I met the men
of Monsieur le Curé. They brought me here. I am full of woe. But I
return not to France. Better to risk my life in these horrible places
than to know the Bagne.”

He paused, and we nearly choked with laughter, having to turn our faces
away.

“Ah! you weep, messieurs,” he said. “No wonder—it is a sad story.”

“Perhaps,” said Sir Henry, “the heroic blood of your grandparent will
triumph after all; perhaps you will still be great. At any rate we
shall see. And now I vote we go to bed. I am dead tired, and we had not
much sleep on that confounded rock last night.”

And so we did, and very strange the tidy rooms and clean white sheets
seemed to us after our recent experiences.




CHAPTER V.
UMSLOPOGAAS MAKES A PROMISE


Next morning at breakfast I missed Flossie and asked where she was.

“Well,” said her mother, “when I got up this morning I found a note put
outside my door in which—But here it is, you can read it for yourself,”
and she gave me the slip of paper on which the following was written:—

“DEAREST M—,—It is just dawn, and I am off to the hills to get Mr Q—a
bloom of the lily he wants, so don’t expect me till you see me. I have
taken the white donkey; and nurse and a couple of boys are coming with
me—also something to eat, as I may be away all day, for I am determined
to get the lily if I have to go twenty miles for it.—FLOSSIE.”

“I hope she will be all right,” I said, a little anxiously; “I never
meant her to trouble after the flower.”

“Ah, Flossie can look after herself,” said her mother; “she often goes
off in this way like a true child of the wilderness.” But Mr Mackenzie,
who came in just then and saw the note for the first time, looked
rather grave, though he said nothing.

After breakfast was over I took him aside and asked him whether it
would not be possible to send after the girl and get her back, having
in view the possibility of there still being some Masai hanging about,
at whose hands she might come to harm.

“I fear it would be of no use,” he answered. “She may be fifteen miles
off by now, and it is impossible to say what path she has taken. There
are the hills;” and he pointed to a long range of rising ground
stretching almost parallel with the course followed by the river Tana,
but gradually sloping down to a dense bush-clad plain about five miles
short of the house.

Here I suggested that we might get up the great tree over the house and
search the country round with a spyglass; and this, after Mr Mackenzie
had given some orders to his people to try and follow Flossie’s spoor,
we did.

The ascent of the mighty tree was rather an alarming performance, even
with a sound rope-ladder fixed at both ends to climb up, at least to a
landsman; but Good came up like a lamplighter.

On reaching the height at which the first fern-shaped boughs sprang
from the bole, we stepped without any difficulty upon a platform made
of boards, nailed from one bough to another, and large enough to
accommodate a dozen people. As for the view, it was simply glorious. In
every direction the bush rolled away in great billows for miles and
miles, as far as the glass would show, only here and there broken by
the brighter green of patches of cultivation, or by the glittering
surface of lakes. To the northwest, Kenia reared his mighty head, and
we could trace the Tana river curling like a silver snake almost from
his feet, and far away beyond us towards the ocean. It is a glorious
country, and only wants the hand of civilized man to make it a most
productive one.

But look as we would, we could see no signs of Flossie and her donkey,
so at last we had to come down disappointed. On reaching the veranda I
found Umslopogaas sitting there, slowly and lightly sharpening his axe
with a small whetstone he always carried with him.

“What doest thou, Umslopogaas?” I asked.

“I smell blood,” was the answer; and I could get no more out of him.

After dinner we again went up the tree and searched the surrounding
country with a spyglass, but without result. When we came down
Umslopogaas was still sharpening Inkosi-kaas, although she already had
an edge like a razor. Standing in front of him, and regarding him with
a mixture of fear and fascination, was Alphonse. And certainly he did
seem an alarming object—sitting there, Zulu fashion, on his haunches, a
wild look upon his intensely savage and yet intellectual face,
sharpening, sharpening, sharpening at the murderous-looking axe.

“Oh, the monster, the horrible man!” said the little French cook,
lifting his hands in amazement. “See but the hole in his head; the skin
beats on it up and down like a baby’s! Who would nurse such a baby?”
and he burst out laughing at the idea.

For a moment Umslopogaas looked up from his sharpening, and a sort of
evil light played in his dark eyes.

“What does the little ‘buffalo-heifer’ [so named by Umslopogaas, on
account of his mustachios and feminine characteristics] say? Let him be
careful, or I will cut his horns. Beware, little man monkey, beware!”

Unfortunately Alphonse, who was getting over his fear of him, went on
laughing at “_ce drôle d’un monsieur noir_”. I was about to warn him to
desist, when suddenly the huge Zulu bounded off the veranda on to the
open space where Alphonse was standing, his features alive with a sort
of malicious enthusiasm, and began swinging the axe round and round
over the Frenchman’s head.

“Stand still,” I shouted; “do not move as you value your life—he will
not hurt you;” but I doubt if Alphonse heard me, being, fortunately for
himself, almost petrified with horror.

Then followed the most extraordinary display of sword, or rather of
axemanship, that I ever saw. First of all the axe went flying round and
round over the top of Alphonse’s head, with an angry whirl and such
extraordinary swiftness that it looked like a continuous band of steel,
ever getting nearer and yet nearer to that unhappy individual’s skull,
till at last it grazed it as it flew. Then suddenly the motion was
changed, and it seemed to literally flow up and down his body and
limbs, never more than an eighth of an inch from them, and yet never
striking them. It was a wonderful sight to see the little man fixed
there, having apparently realised that to move would be to run the risk
of sudden death, while his black tormentor towered over him, and
wrapped him round with the quick flashes of the axe. For a minute or
more this went on, till suddenly I saw the moving brightness travel
down the side of Alphonse’s face, and then outwards and stop. As it did
so a tuft of something black fell to the ground; it was the tip of one
of the little Frenchman’s curling mustachios.

Umslopogaas leant upon the handle of Inkosi-kaas, and broke into a
long, low laugh; and Alphonse, overcome with fear, sank into a sitting
posture on the ground, while we stood astonished at this exhibition of
almost superhuman skill and mastery of a weapon. “Inkosi-kaas is sharp
enough,” he shouted; “the blow that clipped the ‘buffalo-heifer’s’ horn
would have split a man from the crown to the chin. Few could have
struck it but I; none could have struck it and not taken off the
shoulder too. Look, thou little heifer! Am I a good man to laugh at,
thinkest thou? For a space hast thou stood within a hair’s-breadth of
death. Laugh not again, lest the hair’s-breadth be wanting. I have
spoken.”

“What meanest thou by such mad tricks?” I asked of Umslopogaas,
indignantly. “Surely thou art mad. Twenty times didst thou go near to
slaying the man.”

“And yet, Macumazahn, I slew not. Thrice as Inkosi-kaas flew the spirit
entered into me to end him, and send her crashing through his skull;
but I did not. Nay, it was but a jest; but tell the ‘heifer’ that it is
not well to mock at such as I. Now I go to make a shield, for I smell
blood, Macumazahn—of a truth I smell blood. Before the battle hast thou
not seen the vulture grow of a sudden in the sky? They smell the blood,
Macumazahn, and my scent is more keen than theirs. There is a dry
ox-hide down yonder; I go to make a shield.”

“That is an uncomfortable retainer of yours,” said Mr Mackenzie, who
had witnessed this extraordinary scene. “He has frightened Alphonse out
of his wits; look!” and he pointed to the Frenchman, who, with a scared
white face and trembling limbs, was making his way into the house. “I
don’t think that he will ever laugh at ‘le monsieur noir’ again.”

“Yes,” answered I, “it is ill jesting with such as he. When he is
roused he is like a fiend, and yet he has a kind heart in his own
fierce way. I remember years ago seeing him nurse a sick child for a
week. He is a strange character, but true as steel, and a strong stick
to rest on in danger.”

“He says he smells blood,” said Mr Mackenzie. “I only trust he is not
right. I am getting very fearful about my little girl. She must have
gone far, or she would be home by now. It is half-past three o’clock.”

I pointed out that she had taken food with her, and very likely would
not in the ordinary course of events return till nightfall; but I
myself felt very anxious, and fear that my anxiety betrayed itself.

Shortly after this, the people whom Mr Mackenzie had sent out to search
for Flossie returned, stating that they had followed the spoor of the
donkey for a couple of miles and had then lost it on some stony ground,
nor could they discover it again. They had, however, scoured the
country far and wide, but without success.

After this the afternoon wore drearily on, and towards evening, there
still being no signs of Flossie, our anxiety grew very keen. As for the
poor mother, she was quite prostrated by her fears, and no wonder, but
the father kept his head wonderfully well. Everything that could be
done was done: people were sent out in all directions, shots were
fired, and a continuous outlook kept from the great tree, but without
avail.

And then it grew dark, and still no sign of fair-haired little Flossie.

At eight o’clock we had supper. It was but a sorrowful meal, and Mrs
Mackenzie did not appear at it. We three also were very silent, for in
addition to our natural anxiety as to the fate of the child, we were
weighed down by the sense that we had brought this trouble on the head
of our kind host. When supper was nearly at an end I made an excuse to
leave the table. I wanted to get outside and think the situation over.
I went on to the veranda and, having lit my pipe, sat down on a seat
about a dozen feet from the right-hand end of the structure, which was,
as the reader may remember, exactly opposite one of the narrow doors of
the protecting wall that enclosed the house and flower garden. I had
been sitting there perhaps six or seven minutes when I thought I heard
the door move. I looked in that direction and I listened, but, being
unable to make out anything, concluded that I must have been mistaken.
It was a darkish night, the moon not having yet risen.

Another minute passed, when suddenly something round fell with a soft
but heavy thud upon the stone flooring of the veranda, and came
bounding and rolling along past me. For a moment I did not rise, but
sat wondering what it could be. Finally, I concluded it must have been
an animal. Just then, however, another idea struck me, and I got up
quick enough. The thing lay quite still a few feet beyond me. I put
down my hand towards it and it did not move: clearly it was not an
animal. My hand touched it. It was soft and warm and heavy. Hurriedly I
lifted it and held it up against the faint starlight.

_It was a newly severed human head!_

I am an old hand and not easily upset, but I own that that ghastly
sight made me feel sick. How had the thing come there? Whose was it? I
put it down and ran to the little doorway. I could see nothing, hear
nobody. I was about to go out into the darkness beyond, but remembering
that to do so was to expose myself to the risk of being stabbed, I drew
back, shut the door, and bolted it. Then I returned to the veranda, and
in as careless a voice as I could command called Curtis. I fear,
however, that my tones must have betrayed me, for not only Sir Henry
but also Good and Mackenzie rose from the table and came hurrying out.

“What is it?” said the clergyman, anxiously.

Then I had to tell them.

Mr Mackenzie turned pale as death under his red skin. We were standing
opposite the hall door, and there was a light in it so that I could
see. He snatched the head up by the hair and held it against the light.

“It is the head of one of the men who accompanied Flossie,” he said
with a gasp. “Thank God it is not hers!”

We all stood and stared at each other aghast. What was to be done?

Just then there was a knocking at the door that I had bolted, and a
voice cried, “Open, my father, open!”

The door was unlocked, and in sped a terrified man. He was one of the
spies who had been sent out.

“My father,” he cried, “the Masai are on us! A great body of them have
passed round the hill and are moving towards the old stone kraal down
by the little stream. My father, make strong thy heart! In the midst of
them I saw the white ass, and on it sat the Water-lily [Flossie]. An
Elmoran [young warrior] led the ass, and by its side walked the nurse
weeping. The men who went with her in the morning I saw not.”

“Was the child alive?” asked Mr Mackenzie, hoarsely.

“She was white as the snow, but well, my father. They passed quite
close to me, and looking up from where I lay hid I saw her face against
the sky.”

“God help her and us!” groaned the clergyman.

“How many are there of them?” I asked.

“More than two hundred—two hundred and half a hundred.”

Once more we looked one on the other. What was to be done? Just then
there rose a loud insistent cry outside the wall.

“Open the door, white man; open the door! A herald—a herald to speak
with thee.” Thus cried the voice.

Umslopogaas ran to the wall, and, reaching with his long arms to the
coping, lifted his head above it and gazed over.

“I see but one man,” he said. “He is armed, and carries a basket in his
hand.”

“Open the door,” I said. “Umslopogaas, take thine axe and stand
thereby. Let one man pass. If another follows, slay.”

The door was unbarred. In the shadow of the wall stood Umslopogaas, his
axe raised above his head to strike. Just then the moon came out. There
was a moment’s pause, and then in stalked a Masai Elmoran, clad in the
full war panoply that I have already described, but bearing a large
basket in his hand. The moonlight shone bright upon his great spear as
he walked. He was physically a splendid man, apparently about
thirty-five years of age. Indeed, none of the Masai that I saw were
under six feet high, though mostly quite young. When he got opposite to
us he halted, put down the basket, and stuck the spike of his spear
into the ground, so that it stood upright.

“Let us talk,” he said. “The first messenger we sent to you could not
talk;” and he pointed to the head which lay upon the paving of the
stoep—a ghastly sight in the moonlight; “but I have words to speak if
ye have ears to hear. Also I bring presents;” and he pointed to the
basket and laughed with an air of swaggering insolence that is
perfectly indescribable, and yet which one could not but admire, seeing
that he was surrounded by enemies.

“Say on,” said Mr Mackenzie.

“I am the ‘Lygonani’ [war captain] of a party of the Masai of the Guasa
Amboni. I and my men followed these three white men,” and he pointed to
Sir Henry, Good, and myself, “but they were too clever for us, and
escaped hither. We have a quarrel with them, and are going to kill
them.”

“Are you, my friend?” said I to myself.

“In following these men we this morning caught two black men, one black
woman, a white donkey, and a white girl. One of the black men we
killed—there is his head upon the pavement; the other ran away. The
black woman, the little white girl, and the white ass we took and
brought with us. In proof thereof have I brought this basket that she
carried. Is it not thy daughter’s basket?”

Mr Mackenzie nodded, and the warrior went on.

“Good! With thee and thy daughter we have no quarrel, nor do we wish to
harm thee, save as to thy cattle, which we have already gathered, two
hundred and forty head—a beast for every man’s father.”[6]

 [6] The Masai Elmoran or young warriors can own no property, so all
 the booty they may win in battle belongs to their fathers alone.—A. Q.

Here Mr Mackenzie gave a groan, as he greatly valued this herd of
cattle, which he bred with much care and trouble.

“So, save for the cattle, thou mayst go free; more especially,” he
added frankly, glancing at the wall, “as this place would be a
difficult one to take. But as to these men it is otherwise; we have
followed them for nights and days, and must kill them. Were we to
return to our kraal without having done so, all the girls would make a
mock of us. So, however troublesome it may be, they must die.

“Now I have a proposition for thee. We would not harm the little girl;
she is too fair to harm, and has besides a brave spirit. Give us one of
these three men—a life for a life—and we will let her go, and throw in
the black woman with her also. This is a fair offer, white man. We ask
but for one, not for the three; we must take another opportunity to
kill the other two. I do not even pick my man, though I should prefer
the big one,” pointing to Sir Henry; “he looks strong, and would die
more slowly.”

“And if I say I will not yield the man?” said Mr Mackenzie.

“Nay, say not so, white man,” answered the Masai, “for then thy
daughter dies at dawn, and the woman with her says thou hast no other
child. Were she older I would take her for a servant; but as she is so
young I will slay her with my own hand—ay, with this very spear. Thou
canst come and see, an’ thou wilt. I give thee a safe conduct;” and the
fiend laughed aloud at his brutal jest.

Meanwhile I had been thinking rapidly, as one does in emergencies, and
had come to the conclusion that I would exchange myself against
Flossie. I scarcely like to mention the matter for fear it should be
misunderstood. Pray do not let any one be misled into thinking that
there was anything heroic about this, or any such nonsense. It was
merely a matter of common sense and common justice. My life was an old
and worthless one, hers was young and valuable. Her death would pretty
well kill her father and mother also, whilst nobody would be much the
worse for mine; indeed, several charitable institutions would have
cause to rejoice thereat. It was indirectly through me that the dear
little girl was in her present position. Lastly, a man was better
fitted to meet death in such a peculiarly awful form than a sweet young
girl. Not, however, that I meant to let these gentry torture me to
death—I am far too much of a coward to allow that, being naturally a
timid man; my plan was to see the girl safely exchanged and then to
shoot myself, trusting that the Almighty would take the peculiar
circumstances of the case into consideration and pardon the act. All
this and more went through my mind in very few seconds.

“All right, Mackenzie,” I said, “you can tell the man that I will
exchange myself against Flossie, only I stipulate that she shall be
safely in this house before they kill me.”

“Eh?” said Sir Henry and Good simultaneously. “That you don’t.”

“No, no,” said Mr Mackenzie. “I will have no man’s blood upon my hands.
If it please God that my daughter should die this awful death, His will
be done. You are a brave man (which I am not by any means) and a noble
man, Quatermain, but you shall not go.”

“If nothing else turns up I shall go,” I said decidedly.

“This is an important matter,” said Mackenzie, addressing the Lygonani,
“and we must think it over. You shall have our answer at dawn.”

“Very well, white man,” answered the savage indifferently; “only
remember if thy answer is late thy little white bud will never grow
into a flower, that is all, for I shall cut it with this,” and he
touched the spear. “I should have thought that thou wouldst play a
trick and attack us at night, but I know from the woman with the girl
that your men are down at the coast, and that thou hast but twenty men
here. It is not wise, white man,” he added with a laugh, “to keep so
small a garrison for your ‘boma’ [kraal]. Well, good night, and good
night to you also, other white men, whose eyelids I shall soon close
once and for all. At dawn thou wilt bring me word. If not, remember it
shall be as I have said.” Then turning to Umslopogaas, who had all the
while been standing behind him and shepherding him as it were, “Open
the door for me, fellow, quick now.”

This was too much for the old chief’s patience. For the last ten
minutes his lips had been, figuratively speaking, positively watering
over the Masai Lygonani, and this he could not stand. Placing his long
hand on the Elmoran’s shoulder he gripped it and gave him such a twist
as brought him face to face with himself. Then, thrusting his fierce
countenance to within a few inches of the Masai’s evil feather-framed
features, he said in a low growling voice:—

“Seest thou me?”

“Ay, fellow, I see thee.”

“And seest thou this?” and he held Inkosi-kaas before his eyes.

“Ay, fellow, I see the toy; what of it?”

“Thou Masai dog, thou boasting windbag, thou capturer of little girls,
with this ‘toy’ will I hew thee limb from limb. Well for thee that thou
art a herald, or even now would I strew thy members about the grass.”

The Masai shook his great spear and laughed loud and long as he
answered, “I would that thou stoodst against me man to man, and we
would see,” and again he turned to go still laughing.

“Thou shalt stand against me man to man, be not afraid,” replied
Umslopogaas, still in the same ominous voice. “Thou shalt stand face to
face with Umslopogaas, of the blood of Chaka, of the people of the
Amazulu, a captain in the regiment of the Nkomabakosi, as many have
done before, and bow thyself to Inkosi-kaas, as many have done before.
Ay, laugh on, laugh on! tomorrow night shall the jackals laugh as they
crunch thy ribs.”

When the Lygonani had gone, one of us thought of opening the basket he
had brought as a proof that Flossie was really their prisoner. On
lifting the lid it was found to contain a most lovely specimen of both
bulb and flower of the Goya lily, which I have already described, in
full bloom and quite uninjured, and what was more a note in Flossie’s
childish hand written in pencil upon a greasy piece of paper that had
been used to wrap up some food in:—

“DEAREST FATHER AND MOTHER,” ran the note, “The Masai caught us when we
were coming home with the lily. I tried to escape but could not. They
killed Tom: the other man ran away. They have not hurt nurse and me,
but say that they mean to exchange us against one of Mr Quatermain’s
party. _I will have nothing of the sort_. Do not let anybody give his
life for me. Try and attack them at night; they are going to feast on
three bullocks they have stolen and killed. I have my pistol, and if no
help comes by dawn I will shoot myself. They shall not kill me. If so,
remember me always, dearest father and mother. I am very frightened,
but I trust in God. I dare not write any more as they are beginning to
notice. Goodbye.—FLOSSIE.”

Scrawled across the outside of this was “Love to Mr Quatermain. They
are going to take the basket, so he will get the lily.”

When I read those words, written by that brave little girl in an hour
of danger sufficiently near and horrible to have turned the brain of a
strong man, I own I wept, and once more in my heart I vowed that she
should not die while my life could be given to save her.

Then eagerly, quickly, almost fiercely, we fell to discussing the
situation. Again I said that I would go, and again Mackenzie negatived
it, and Curtis and Good, like the true men that they are, vowed that,
if I did, they would go with me, and die back to back with me.

“It is,” I said at last, “absolutely necessary that an effort of some
sort should be made before the morning.”

“Then let us attack them with what force we can muster, and take our
chance,” said Sir Henry.

“Ay, ay,” growled Umslopogaas, in Zulu; “spoken like a man, Incubu.
What is there to be afraid of? Two hundred and fifty Masai, forsooth!
How many are we? The chief there [Mr Mackenzie] has twenty men, and
thou, Macumazahn, hast five men, and there are also five white men—that
is, thirty men in all—enough, enough. Listen now, Macumazahn, thou who
art very clever and old in war. What says the maid? These men eat and
make merry; let it be their funeral feast. What said the dog whom I
hope to hew down at daybreak? That he feared no attack because we were
so few. Knowest thou the old kraal where the men have camped? I saw it
this morning; it is thus:” and he drew an oval on the floor; “here is
the big entrance, filled up with thorn bushes, and opening on to a
steep rise. Why, Incubu, thou and I with axes will hold it against an
hundred men striving to break out! Look, now; thus shall the battle go.
Just as the light begins to glint upon the oxen’s horns—not before, or
it will be too dark, and not later, or they will be awakening and
perceive us—let Bougwan creep round with ten men to the top end of the
kraal, where the narrow entrance is. Let them silently slay the sentry
there so that he makes no sound, and stand ready. Then, Incubu, let
thee and me and one of the Askari—the one with the broad chest—he is a
brave man—creep to the wide entrance that is filled with thorn bushes,
and there also slay the sentry, and armed with battle-axes take our
stand also one on each side of the pathway, and one a few paces beyond
to deal with such as pass the twain at the gate. It is there that the
rush will come. That will leave sixteen men. Let these men be divided
into two parties, with one of which shalt thou go, Macumazahn, and with
one the ‘praying man’ [Mr Mackenzie], and, all armed with rifles, let
them make their way one to the right side of the kraal and one to the
left; and when thou, Macumazahn, lowest like an ox, all shall open fire
with the guns upon the sleeping men, being very careful not to hit the
little maid. Then shall Bougwan at the far end and his ten men raise
the war-cry, and, springing over the wall, put the Masai there to the
sword. And it shall happen that, being yet heavy with food and sleep,
and bewildered by the firing of the guns, the falling of men, and the
spears of Bougwan, the soldiers shall rise and rush like wild game
towards the thorn-stopped entrance, and there the bullets from either
side shall plough through them, and there shall Incubu and the Askari
and I wait for those who break across. Such is my plan, Macumazahn; if
thou hast a better, name it.”

When he had done, I explained to the others such portions of his scheme
as they had failed to understand, and they all joined with me in
expressing the greatest admiration of the acute and skilful programme
devised by the old Zulu, who was indeed, in his own savage fashion, the
finest general I ever knew. After some discussion we determined to
accept the scheme, as it stood, it being the only one possible under
the circumstances, and giving the best chance of success that such a
forlorn hope would admit of—which, however, considering the enormous
odds and the character of our foe, was not very great.

“Ah, old lion!” I said to Umslopogaas, “thou knowest how to lie in wait
as well as how to bite, where to seize as well as where to hang on.”

“Ay, ay, Macumazahn,” he answered. “For thirty years have I been a
warrior, and have seen many things. It will be a good fight. I smell
blood—I tell thee, I smell blood.”




CHAPTER VI.
THE NIGHT WEARS ON


As may be imagined, at the very first sign of a Masai the entire
population of the Mission Station had sought refuge inside the stout
stone wall, and were now to be seen—men, women, and countless
children—huddled up together in little groups, and all talking at once
in awed tones of the awfulness of Masai manners and customs, and of the
fate that they had to expect if those bloodthirsty savages succeeded in
getting over the stone wall.

Immediately after we had settled upon the outline of our plan of action
as suggested by Umslopogaas, Mr Mackenzie sent for four sharp boys of
from twelve to fifteen years of age, and despatched them to various
points where they could keep an outlook upon the Masai camp, with
others to report from time to time what was going on. Other lads and
even women were stationed at intervals along the wall in order to guard
against the possibility of surprise.

After this the twenty men who formed his whole available fighting force
were summoned by our host into the square formed by the house, and
there, standing by the bole of the great conifer, he earnestly
addressed them and our four Askari. Indeed, it formed a very impressive
scene—one not likely to be forgotten by anybody who witnessed it.
Immediately by the tree stood the angular form of Mr Mackenzie, one arm
outstretched as he talked, and the other resting against the giant
bole, his hat off, and his plain but kindly face clearly betraying the
anguish of his mind. Next to him was his poor wife, who, seated on a
chair, had her face hidden in her hand. On the other side of her was
Alphonse, looking exceedingly uncomfortable, and behind him stood the
three of us, with Umslopogaas’ grim and towering form in the
background, resting, as usual, on his axe. In front stood and squatted
the group of armed men—some with rifles in their hands, and others with
spears and shields—following with eager attention every word that fell
from the speaker’s lips. The white light of the moon peering in beneath
the lofty boughs threw a strange wild glamour over the scene, whilst
the melancholy soughing of the night wind passing through the millions
of pine needles overhead added a sadness of its own to what was already
a sufficiently tragic occasion.

“Men,” said Mr Mackenzie, after he had put all the circumstances of the
case fully and clearly before them, and explained to them the proposed
plan of our forlorn hope—“men, for years I have been a good friend to
you, protecting you, teaching you, guarding you and yours from harm,
and ye have prospered with me. Ye have seen my child—the Water-lily, as
ye call her—grow year by year, from tenderest infancy to tender
childhood, and from childhood on towards maidenhood. She has been your
children’s playmate, she has helped to tend you when sick, and ye have
loved her.”

“We have,” said a deep voice, “and we will die to save her.”

“I thank you from my heart—I thank you. Sure am I that now, in this
hour of darkest trouble; now that her young life is like to be cut off
by cruel and savage men—who of a truth ‘know not what they do’—ye will
strive your best to save her, and to save me and her mother from broken
hearts. Think, too, of your own wives and children. If she dies, her
death will be followed by an attack upon us here, and at the best, even
if we hold our own, your houses and gardens will be destroyed, and your
goods and cattle swept away. I am, as ye well know, a man of peace.
Never in all these years have I lifted my hand to shed man’s blood; but
now I say strike, strike, in the name of God, Who bade us protect our
lives and homes. Swear to me,” he went on with added fervour—“swear to
me that whilst a man of you remains alive ye will strive your uttermost
with me and with these brave white men to save the child from a bloody
and cruel death.”

“Say no more, my father,” said the same deep voice, that belonged to a
stalwart elder of the Mission; “we swear it. May we and ours die the
death of dogs, and our bones be thrown to the jackals and the kites, if
we break the oath! It is a fearful thing to do, my father, so few to
strike at so many, yet will we do it or die in the doing. We swear!”

“Ay, thus say we all,” chimed in the others.

“Thus say we all,” said I.

“It is well,” went on Mr Mackenzie. “Ye are true men and not broken
reeds to lean on. And now, friends—white and black together—let us
kneel and offer up our humble supplication to the Throne of Power,
praying that He in the hollow of Whose hand lie all our lives, Who
giveth life and giveth death, may be pleased to make strong our arms
that we may prevail in what awaits us at the morning’s light.”

And he knelt down, an example that we all followed except Umslopogaas,
who still stood in the background, grimly leaning on Inkosi-kaas. The
fierce old Zulu had no gods and worshipped nought, unless it were his
battleaxe.

“Oh God of gods!” began the clergyman, his deep voice, tremulous with
emotion, echoing up in the silence even to the leafy roof; “Protector
of the oppressed, Refuge of those in danger, Guardian of the helpless,
hear Thou our prayer! Almighty Father, to Thee we come in supplication.
Hear Thou our prayer! Behold, one child hast Thou given us—an innocent
child, nurtured in Thy knowledge—and now she lies beneath the shadow of
the sword, in danger of a fearful death at the hands of savage men. Be
with her now, oh God, and comfort her! Save her, oh Heavenly Father! Oh
God of battle, Who teacheth our hands to war and our fingers to fight,
in Whose strength are hid the destinies of men, be Thou with us in the
hour of strife. When we go forth into the shadow of death, make Thou us
strong to conquer. Breathe Thou upon our foes and scatter them; turn
Thou their strength to water, and bring their high-blown pride to
nought; compass us about with Thy protection; throw over us the shield
of Thy power; forget us not now in the hour of our sore distress; help
us now that the cruel man would dash our little ones against the
stones! Hear Thou our prayer! And for those of us who, kneeling now on
earth in health before Thee, shall at the sunrise adore Thy Presence on
the Throne, hear our prayer! Make them clean, oh God; wash away their
offences in the blood of the Lamb; and when their spirits pass, oh
receive Thou them into the haven of the just. Go forth, oh Father, go
forth with us into the battle, as with the Israelites of old. Oh God of
battle, hear Thou our prayer!”

He ceased, and after a moment’s silence we all rose, and then began our
preparations in good earnest. As Umslopogaas said, it was time to stop
“talking” and get to business. The men who were to form each little
party were carefully selected, and still more carefully and minutely
instructed as to what was to be done. After much consideration it was
agreed that the ten men led by Good, whose duty it was to stampede the
camp, were not to carry firearms; that is, with the exception of Good
himself, who had a revolver as well as a short sword—the Masai “sime”
which I had taken from the body of our poor servant who was murdered in
the canoe. We feared that if they had firearms the result of three
cross-fires carried on at once would be that some of our own people
would be shot; besides, it appeared to all of us that the work they had
to do would best be carried out with cold steel—especially to
Umslopogaas, who was, indeed, a great advocate of cold steel. We had
with us four Winchester repeating rifles, besides half a dozen
Martinis. I armed myself with one of the repeaters—my own; an excellent
weapon for this kind of work, where great rapidity of fire is
desirable, and fitted with ordinary flap-sights instead of the
cumbersome sliding mechanism which they generally have. Mr Mackenzie
took another, and the two remaining ones were given to two of his men
who understood the use of them and were noted shots. The Martinis and
some rifles of Mr Mackenzie’s were served out, together with a
plentiful supply of ammunition, to the other natives who were to form
the two parties whose duty it was to be to open fire from separate
sides of the kraal on the sleeping Masai, and who were fortunately all
more or less accustomed to the use of a gun.

As for Umslopogaas, we know how he was armed—with an axe. It may be
remembered that he, Sir Henry, and the strongest of the Askari were to
hold the thorn-stopped entrance to the kraal against the anticipated
rush of men striving to escape. Of course, for such a purpose as this
guns were useless. Therefore Sir Henry and the Askari proceeded to arm
themselves in like fashion. It so happened that Mr Mackenzie had in his
little store a selection of the very best and English-made
hammer-backed axe-heads. Sir Henry selected one of these weighing about
two and a half pounds and very broad in the blade, and the Askari took
another a size smaller. After Umslopogaas had put an extra edge on
these two axe-heads, we fixed them to three feet six helves, of which
Mr Mackenzie fortunately had some in stock, made of a light but
exceedingly tough native wood, something like English ash, only more
springy. When two suitable helves had been selected with great care and
the ends of the hafts notched to prevent the hand from slipping, the
axe-heads were fixed on them as firmly as possible, and the weapons
immersed in a bucket of water for half an hour. The result of this was
to swell the wood in the socket in such a fashion that nothing short of
burning would get it out again. When this important matter had been
attended to by Umslopogaas, I went into my room and proceeded to open a
little tin-lined deal case, which contained—what do you think?—nothing
more or less than four mail shirts.

It had happened to us three on a previous journey that we had made in
another part of Africa to owe our lives to iron shirts of native make,
and remembering this, I had suggested before we started on our present
hazardous expedition that we should have some made to fit us. There was
a little difficulty about this, as armour-making is pretty well an
extinct art, but they can do most things in the way of steel work in
Birmingham if they are put to it and you will pay the price, and the
end of it was that they turned us out the loveliest steel shirts it is
possible to see. The workmanship was exceedingly fine, the web being
composed of thousands upon thousands of stout but tiny rings of the
best steel made. These shirts, or rather steel-sleeved and high-necked
jerseys, were lined with ventilated wash leather, were not bright, but
browned like the barrel of a gun; and mine weighed exactly seven pounds
and fitted me so well that I found I could wear it for days next to my
skin without being chafed. Sir Henry had two, one of the ordinary make,
viz. a jersey with little dependent flaps meant to afford some
protection to the upper part of the thighs, and another of his own
design fashioned on the pattern of the garments advertised as
“combinations” and weighing twelve pounds. This combination shirt, of
which the seat was made of wash-leather, protected the whole body down
to the knees, but was rather more cumbersome, inasmuch as it had to be
laced up at the back and, of course, involved some extra weight. With
these shirts were what looked like four brown cloth travelling caps
with ear pieces. Each of these caps was, however, quilted with steel
links so as to afford a most valuable protection for the head.

It seems almost laughable to talk of steel shirts in these days of
bullets, against which they are of course quite useless; but where one
has to do with savages, armed with cutting weapons such as assegais or
battle-axes, they afford the most valuable protection, being, if well
made, quite invulnerable to them. I have often thought that if only the
English Government had in our savage wars, and more especially in the
Zulu war, thought fit to serve out light steel shirts, there would be
many a man alive today who, as it is, is dead and forgotten.

To return: on the present occasion we blessed our foresight in bringing
these shirts, and also our good luck, in that they had not been stolen
by our rascally bearers when they ran away with our goods. As Curtis
had two, and after considerable deliberation, had made up his mind to
wear his combination one himself—the extra three or four pounds’ weight
being a matter of no account to so strong a man, and the protection
afforded to the thighs being a very important matter to a fighting man
not armed with a shield of any kind—I suggested that he should lend the
other to Umslopogaas, who was to share the danger and the glory of his
post. He readily consented, and called the Zulu, who came bearing Sir
Henry’s axe, which he had now fixed up to his satisfaction, with him.
When we showed him the steel shirt, and explained to him that we wanted
him to wear it, he at first declined, saying that he had fought in his
own skin for thirty years, and that he was not going to begin now to
fight in an iron one. Thereupon I took a heavy spear, and, spreading
the shirt upon the floor, drove the spear down upon it with all my
strength, the weapon rebounding without leaving a mark upon the
tempered steel. This exhibition half converted him; and when I pointed
out to him how necessary it was that he should not let any
old-fashioned prejudices he might possess stand in the way of a
precaution which might preserve a valuable life at a time when men were
scarce, and also that if he wore this shirt he might dispense with a
shield, and so have both hands free, he yielded at once, and proceeded
to invest his frame with the “iron skin”. And indeed, although made for
Sir Henry, it fitted the great Zulu like a skin. The two men were
almost of a height; and, though Curtis looked the bigger man, I am
inclined to think that the difference was more imaginary than real, the
fact being that, although he was plumper and rounder, he was not really
bigger, except in the arm. Umslopogaas had, comparatively speaking,
thin arms, but they were as strong as wire ropes. At any rate, when
they both stood, axe in hand, invested in the brown mail, which clung
to their mighty forms like a web garment, showing the swell of every
muscle and the curve of every line, they formed a pair that any ten men
might shrink from meeting.

It was now nearly one o’clock in the morning, and the spies reported
that, after having drunk the blood of the oxen and eaten enormous
quantities of meat, the Masai were going to sleep round their
watchfires; but that sentries had been posted at each opening of the
kraal. Flossie, they added, was sitting not far from the wall in the
centre of the western side of the kraal, and by her were the nurse and
the white donkey, which was tethered to a peg. Her feet were bound with
a rope, and warriors were lying about all round her.

As there was absolutely nothing further that could be done then we all
took some supper, and went to lie down for a couple of hours. I could
not help admiring the way in which old Umslopogaas flung himself upon
the floor, and, unmindful of what was hanging over him, instantly sank
into a deep sleep. I do not know how it was with the others, but I
could not do as much. Indeed, as is usual with me on these occasions, I
am sorry to say that I felt rather frightened; and, now that some of
the enthusiasm had gone out of me, and I began to calmly contemplate
what we had undertaken to do, truth compels me to add that I did not
like it. We were but thirty men all told, a good many of whom were no
doubt quite unused to fighting, and we were going to engage two hundred
and fifty of the fiercest, bravest, and most formidable savages in
Africa, who, to make matters worse, were protected by a stone wall. It
was, indeed, a mad undertaking, and what made it even madder was the
exceeding improbability of our being able to take up our positions
without attracting the notice of the sentries. Of course if we once did
that—and any slight accident, such as the chance discharge of a gun,
might do it—we were done for, for the whole camp would be up in a
second, and our only hope lay in surprise.

The bed whereon I lay indulging in these uncomfortable reflections was
near an open window that looked on to the veranda, through which came
an extraordinary sound of groaning and weeping. For a time I could not
make out what it was, but at last I got up and, putting my head out of
the window, stared about. Presently I saw a dim figure kneeling on the
end of the veranda and beating his breast—in which I recognized
Alphonse. Not being able to understand his French talk or what on earth
he was at, I called to him and asked him what he was doing.

“Ah, monsieur,” he sighed, “I do make prayer for the souls of those
whom I shall slay tonight.”

“Indeed,” I said, “then I wish that you would do it a little more
quietly.”

Alphonse retreated, and I heard no more of his groans. And so the time
passed, till at length Mr Mackenzie called me in a whisper through the
window, for of course everything had now to be done in the most
absolute silence. “Three o’clock,” he said: “we must begin to move at
half-past.”

I told him to come in, and presently he entered, and I am bound to say
that if it had not been that just then I had not got a laugh anywhere
about me, I should have exploded at the sight he presented armed for
battle. To begin with, he had on a clergyman’s black swallow-tail and a
kind of broad-rimmed black felt hat, both of which he had donned on
account, he said, of their dark colour. In his hand was the Winchester
repeating rifle we had lent him; and stuck in an elastic cricketing
belt, like those worn by English boys, were, first, a huge
buckhorn-handled carving knife with a guard to it, and next a
long-barrelled Colt’s revolver.

“Ah, my friend,” he said, seeing me staring at his belt, “you are
looking at my ‘carver’. I thought it might come in handy if we came to
close quarters; it is excellent steel, and many is the pig I have
killed with it.”

By this time everybody was up and dressing. I put on a light Norfolk
jacket over my mail shirt in order to have a pocket handy to hold my
cartridges, and buckled on my revolver. Good did the same, but Sir
Henry put on nothing except his mail shirt, steel-lined cap, and a pair
of “veldt-schoons” or soft hide shoes, his legs being bare from the
knees down. His revolver he strapped on round his middle outside the
armoured shirt.

Meanwhile Umslopogaas was mustering the men in the square under the big
tree and going the rounds to see that each was properly armed, etc. At
the last moment we made one change. Finding that two of the men who
were to have gone with the firing parties knew little or nothing of
guns, but were good spearsmen, we took away their rifles, supplied them
with shields and long spears of the Masai pattern, and took them off to
join Curtis, Umslopogaas, and the Askari in holding the wide opening;
it having become clear to us that three men, however brave and strong,
were too few for the work.




CHAPTER VII.
A SLAUGHTER GRIM AND GREAT


Then there was a pause, and we stood there in the chilly silent
darkness waiting till the moment came to start. It was, perhaps, the
most trying time of all—that slow, slow quarter of an hour. The minutes
seemed to drag along with leaden feet, and the quiet, the solemn hush,
that brooded over all—big, as it were, with a coming fate, was most
oppressive to the spirits. I once remember having to get up before dawn
to see a man hanged, and I then went through a very similar set of
sensations, only in the present instance my feelings were animated by
that more vivid and personal element which naturally appertains rather
to the person to be operated on than to the most sympathetic spectator.
The solemn faces of the men, well aware that the short passage of an
hour would mean for some, and perhaps all of them, the last great
passage to the unknown or oblivion; the bated whispers in which they
spoke; even Sir Henry’s continuous and thoughtful examination of his
woodcutter’s axe and the fidgety way in which Good kept polishing his
eyeglass, all told the same tale of nerves stretched pretty nigh to
breaking-point. Only Umslopogaas, leaning as usual upon Inkosi-kaas and
taking an occasional pinch of snuff, was to all appearance perfectly
and completely unmoved. Nothing could touch his iron nerves.

The moon went down. For a long while she had been getting nearer and
nearer to the horizon. Now she finally sank and left the world in
darkness save for a faint grey tinge in the eastern sky that palely
heralded the dawn.

Mr Mackenzie stood, watch in hand, his wife clinging to his arm and
striving to stifle her sobs.

“Twenty minutes to four,” he said, “it ought to be light enough to
attack at twenty minutes past four. Captain Good had better be moving,
he will want three or four minutes’ start.”

Good gave one final polish to his eyeglass, nodded to us in a jocular
sort of way—which I could not help feeling it must have cost him
something to muster up—and, ever polite, took off his steel-lined cap
to Mrs Mackenzie and started for his position at the head of the kraal,
to reach which he had to make a detour by some paths known to the
natives.

Just then one of the boys came in and reported that everybody in the
Masai camp, with the exception of the two sentries who were walking up
and down in front of the respective entrances, appeared to be fast
asleep. Then the rest of us took the road. First came the guide, then
Sir Henry, Umslopogaas, the Wakwafi Askari, and Mr Mackenzie’s two
mission natives armed with long spears and shields. I followed
immediately after with Alphonse and five natives all armed with guns,
and Mr Mackenzie brought up the rear with the six remaining natives.

The cattle kraal where the Masai were camped lay at the foot of the
hill on which the house stood, or, roughly speaking, about eight
hundred yards from the Mission buildings. The first five hundred yards
of this distance we traversed quietly indeed, but at a good pace; after
that we crept forward as silently as a leopard on his prey, gliding
like ghosts from bush to bush and stone to stone. When I had gone a
little way I chanced to look behind me, and saw the redoubtable
Alphonse staggering along with white face and trembling knees, and his
rifle, which was at full cock, pointed directly at the small of my
back. Having halted and carefully put the rifle at “safety”, we started
again, and all went well till we were within one hundred yards or so of
the kraal, when his teeth began to chatter in the most aggressive way.

“If you don’t stop that I will kill you,” I whispered savagely; for the
idea of having all our lives sacrificed to a tooth-chattering cook was
too much for me. I began to fear that he would betray us, and heartily
wished we had left him behind.

“But, monsieur, I cannot help it,” he answered, “it is the cold.”

Here was a dilemma, but fortunately I devised a plan. In the pocket of
the coat I had on was a small piece of dirty rag that I had used some
time before to clean a gun with. “Put this in your mouth,” I whispered
again, giving him the rag; “and if I hear another sound you are a dead
man.” I knew that that would stifle the clatter of his teeth. I must
have looked as if I meant what I said, for he instantly obeyed me, and
continued his journey in silence.

Then we crept on again.

At last we were within fifty yards of the kraal. Between us and it was
an open space of sloping grass with only one mimosa bush and a couple
of tussocks of a sort of thistle for cover. We were still hidden in
fairly thick bush. It was beginning to grow light. The stars had paled
and a sickly gleam played about the east and was reflected on the
earth. We could see the outline of the kraal clearly enough, and could
also make out the faint glimmer of the dying embers of the Masai
camp-fires. We halted and watched, for the sentry we knew was posted at
the opening. Presently he appeared, a fine tall fellow, walking idly up
and down within five paces of the thorn-stopped entrance. We had hoped
to catch him napping, but it was not to be. He seemed particularly wide
awake. If we could not kill that man, and kill him silently, we were
lost. There we crouched and watched him. Presently Umslopogaas, who was
a few paces ahead of me, turned and made a sign, and next second I saw
him go down on his stomach like a snake, and, taking an opportunity
when the sentry’s head was turned, begin to work his way through the
grass without a sound.

The unconscious sentry commenced to hum a little tune, and Umslopogaas
crept on. He reached the shelter of the mimosa bush unperceived and
there waited. Still the sentry walked up and down. Presently he turned
and looked over the wall into the camp. Instantly the human snake who
was stalking him glided on ten yards and got behind one of the tussocks
of the thistle-like plant, reaching it as the Elmoran turned again. As
he did so his eye fell upon this patch of thistles, and it seemed to
strike him that it did not look quite right. He advanced a pace towards
it—halted, yawned, stooped down, picked up a little pebble and threw it
at it. It hit Umslopogaas upon the head, luckily not upon the armour
shirt. Had it done so the clink would have betrayed us. Luckily, too,
the shirt was browned and not bright steel, which would certainly have
been detected. Apparently satisfied that there was nothing wrong, he
then gave over his investigations and contented himself with leaning on
his spear and standing gazing idly at the tuft. For at least three
minutes did he stand thus, plunged apparently in a gentle reverie, and
there we lay in the last extremity of anxiety, expecting every moment
that we should be discovered or that some untoward accident would
happen. I could hear Alphonse’s teeth going like anything on the oiled
rag, and turning my head round made an awful face at him. But I am
bound to state that my own heart was at much the same game as the
Frenchman’s castanets, while the perspiration was pouring from my body,
causing the wash-leather-lined shirt to stick to me unpleasantly, and
altogether I was in the pitiable state known by schoolboys as a “blue
fright”.

At last the ordeal came to an end. The sentry glanced at the east, and
appeared to note with satisfaction that his period of duty was coming
to an end—as indeed it was, once and for all—for he rubbed his hands
and began to walk again briskly to warm himself.

The moment his back was turned the long black snake glided on again,
and reached the other thistle tuft, which was within a couple of paces
of his return beat.

Back came the sentry and strolled right past the tuft, utterly
unconscious of the presence that was crouching behind it. Had he looked
down he could scarcely have failed to see, but he did not do so.

He passed, and then his hidden enemy erected himself, and with
outstretched hand followed in his tracks.

A moment more, and, just as the Elmoran was about to turn, the great
Zulu made a spring, and in the growing light we could see his long lean
hands close round the Masai’s throat. Then followed a convulsive
twining of the two dark bodies, and in another second I saw the Masai’s
head bent back, and heard a sharp crack, something like that of a dry
twig snapping, and he fell down upon the ground, his limbs moving
spasmodically.

Umslopogaas had put out all his iron strength and broken the warrior’s
neck.

For a moment he knelt upon his victim, still gripping his throat till
he was sure that there was nothing more to fear from him, and then he
rose and beckoned to us to advance, which we did on all fours, like a
colony of huge apes. On reaching the kraal we saw that the Masai had
still further choked this entrance, which was about ten feet wide—no
doubt in order to guard against attack—by dragging four or five tops of
mimosa trees up to it. So much the better for us, I reflected; the more
obstruction there was the slower would they be able to come through.
Here we separated; Mackenzie and his party creeping up under the shadow
of the wall to the left, while Sir Henry and Umslopogaas took their
stations one on each side of the thorn fence, the two spearmen and the
Askari lying down in front of it. I and my men crept on up the right
side of the kraal, which was about fifty paces long.

When I was two-thirds up I halted, and placed my men at distances of
four paces from one another, keeping Alphonse close to me, however.
Then I peeped for the first time over the wall. It was getting fairly
light now, and the first thing I saw was the white donkey, exactly
opposite to me, and close by it I could make out the pale face of
little Flossie, who was sitting as the lad had described, some ten
paces from the wall. Round her lay many warriors, sleeping. At
distances all over the surface of the kraal were the remains of fires,
round each of which slept some five-and-twenty Masai, for the most part
gorged with food. Now and then a man would raise himself, yawn, and
look at the east, which was turning primrose; but none got up. I
determined to wait another five minutes, both to allow the light to
increase, so that we could make better shooting, and to give Good and
his party—of whom we could see or hear nothing—every opportunity to
make ready.

The quiet dawn began to throw her ever-widening mantle over plain and
forest and river—mighty Kenia, wrapped in the silence of eternal snows,
looked out across the earth—till presently a beam from the unrisen sun
lit upon his heaven-kissing crest and purpled it with blood; the sky
above grew blue, and tender as a mother’s smile; a bird began to pipe
his morning song, and a little breeze passing through the bush shook
down the dewdrops in millions to refresh the waking world. Everywhere
was peace and the happiness of arising strength, everywhere save in the
heart of cruel man!

Suddenly, just as I was nerving myself for the signal, having already
selected my man on whom I meant to open fire—a great fellow sprawling
on the ground within three feet of little Flossie—Alphonse’s teeth
began to chatter again like the hoofs of a galloping giraffe, making a
great noise in the silence. The rag had dropped out in the agitation of
his mind. Instantly a Masai within three paces of us woke, and, sitting
up, gazed about him, looking for the cause of the sound. Moved beyond
myself, I brought the butt-end of my rifle down on to the pit of the
Frenchman’s stomach. This stopped his chattering; but, as he doubled
up, he managed to let off his gun in such a manner that the bullet
passed within an inch of my head.

There was no need for a signal now. From both sides of the kraal broke
out a waving line of fire, in which I myself joined, managing with a
snap shot to knock over my Masai by Flossie, just as he was jumping up.
Then from the top end of the kraal there rang an awful yell, in which I
rejoiced to recognize Good’s piercing notes rising clear and shrill
above the din, and in another second followed such a scene as I have
never seen before nor shall again. With an universal howl of terror and
fury the brawny crowd of savages within the kraal sprang to their feet,
many of them to fall again beneath our well-directed hail of lead
before they had moved a yard. For a moment they stood undecided, and
then hearing the cries and curses that rose unceasingly from the top
end of the kraal, and bewildered by the storm of bullets, they as by
one impulse rushed down towards the thorn-stopped entrance. As they
went we kept pouring our fire with terrible effect into the thickening
mob as fast as we could load. I had emptied my repeater of the ten
shots it contained and was just beginning to slip in some more when I
bethought me of little Flossie. Looking up, I saw that the white donkey
was lying kicking, having been knocked over either by one of our
bullets or a Masai spear-thrust. There were no living Masai near, but
the black nurse was on her feet and with a spear cutting the rope that
bound Flossie’s feet. Next second she ran to the wall of the kraal and
began to climb over it, an example which the little girl followed. But
Flossie was evidently very stiff and cramped, and could only go slowly,
and as she went two Masai flying down the kraal caught sight of her and
rushed towards her to kill her. The first fellow came up just as the
poor little girl, after a desperate effort to climb the wall, fell back
into the kraal. Up flashed the great spear, and as it did so a bullet
from my rifle found its home in the holder’s ribs, and over he went
like a shot rabbit. But behind him was the other man, and, alas, I had
only that one cartridge in the magazine! Flossie had scrambled to her
feet and was facing the second man, who was advancing with raised
spear. I turned my head aside and felt sick as death. I could not bear
to see him stab her. Glancing up again, to my surprise I saw the
Masai’s spear lying on the ground, while the man himself was staggering
about with both hands to his head. Suddenly I saw a puff of smoke
proceeding apparently from Flossie, and the man fell down headlong.
Then I remembered the Derringer pistol she carried, and saw that she
had fired both barrels of it at him, thereby saving her life. In
another instant she had made an effort, and assisted by the nurse, who
was lying on the top, had scrambled over the wall, and I knew that she
was, comparatively speaking, safe.

All this takes time to tell, but I do not suppose that it took more
than fifteen seconds to enact. I soon got the magazine of the repeater
filled again with cartridges, and once more opened fire, not on the
seething black mass which was gathering at the end of the kraal, but on
fugitives who bethought them to climb the wall. I picked off several of
these men, moving down towards the end of the kraal as I did so, and
arriving at the corner, or rather the bend of the oval, in time to see,
and by means of my rifle to assist in, the mighty struggle that took
place there.

By this time some two hundred Masai—allowing that we had up to the
present accounted for fifty—had gathered together in front of the
thorn-stopped entrance, driven thither by the spears of Good’s men,
whom they doubtless supposed were a large force instead of being but
ten strong. For some reason it never occurred to them to try and rush
the wall, which they could have scrambled over with comparative ease;
they all made for the fence, which was really a strongly interwoven
fortification. With a bound the first warrior went at it, and even
before he touched the ground on the other side I saw Sir Henry’s great
axe swing up and fall with awful force upon his feather head-piece, and
he sank into the middle of the thorns. Then with a yell and a crash
they began to break through as they might, and ever as they came the
great axe swung and Inkosi-kaas flashed and they fell dead one by one,
each man thus helping to build up a barrier against his fellows. Those
who escaped the axes of the pair fell at the hands of the Askari and
the two Mission Kaffirs, and those who passed scatheless from them were
brought low by my own and Mackenzie’s fire.

Faster and more furious grew the fighting. Single Masai would spring
upon the dead bodies of their comrades, and engage one or other of the
axemen with their long spears; but, thanks chiefly to the mail shirts,
the result was always the same. Presently there was a great swing of
the axe, a crashing sound, and another dead Masai. That is, if the man
was engaged with Sir Henry. If it was Umslopogaas that he fought with
the result indeed would be the same, but it would be differently
attained. It was but rarely that the Zulu used the crashing
double-handed stroke; on the contrary, he did little more than tap
continually at his adversary’s head, pecking at it with the pole-axe
end of the axe as a woodpecker[7] pecks at rotten wood. Presently a
peck would go home, and his enemy would drop down with a neat little
circular hole in his forehead or skull, exactly similar to that which a
cheese-scoop makes in a cheese. He never used the broad blade of the
axe except when hard pressed, or when striking at a shield. He told me
afterwards that he did not consider it sportsmanlike.

 [7] As I think I have already said, one of Umslopogaas’s Zulu names
 was the “Woodpecker”. I could never make out why he was called so
 until I saw him in action with Inkosi-kaas, when I at once recognized
 the resemblance.—A. Q.

Good and his men were quite close by now, and our people had to cease
firing into the mass for fear of killing some of them (as it was, one
of them was slain in this way). Mad and desperate with fear, the Masai
by a frantic effort burst through the thorn fence and piled-up dead,
and, sweeping Curtis, Umslopogaas, and the other three before them,
into the open. And now it was that we began to lose men fast. Down went
our poor Askari who was armed with the axe, a great spear standing out
a foot behind his back; and before long the two spearsmen who had stood
with him went down too, dying fighting like tigers; and others of our
party shared their fate. For a moment I feared the fight was
lost—certainly it trembled in the balance. I shouted to my men to cast
down their rifles, and to take spears and throw themselves into the
_mêlée_. They obeyed, their blood being now thoroughly up, and Mr
Mackenzie’s people followed their example.

This move had a momentary good result, but still the fight hung in the
balance.

Our people fought magnificently, hurling themselves upon the dark mass
of Elmoran, hewing, thrusting, slaying, and being slain. And ever above
the din rose Good’s awful yell of encouragement as he plunged to
wherever the fight was thickest; and ever, with an almost machine-like
regularity, the two axes rose and fell, carrying death and disablement
at every stroke. But I could see that the strain was beginning to tell
upon Sir Henry, who was bleeding from several flesh wounds: his breath
was coming in gasps, and the veins stood out on his forehead like blue
and knotted cords. Even Umslopogaas, man of iron that he was, was hard
pressed. I noticed that he had given up “woodpecking”, and was now
using the broad blade of Inkosi-kaas, “browning” his enemy wherever he
could hit him, instead of drilling scientific holes in his head. I
myself did not go into the _mêlée_, but hovered outside like the swift
“back” in a football scrimmage, putting a bullet through a Masai
whenever I got a chance. I was more use so. I fired forty-nine
cartridges that morning, and I did not miss many shots.

Presently, do as we would, the beam of the balance began to rise
against us. We had not more than fifteen or sixteen effectives left
now, and the Masai had at least fifty. Of course if they had kept their
heads, and shaken themselves together, they could soon have made an end
of the matter; but that is just what they did not do, not having yet
recovered from their start, and some of them having actually fled from
their sleeping-places without their weapons. Still by now many
individuals were fighting with their normal courage and discretion, and
this alone was sufficient to defeat us. To make matters worse just
then, when Mackenzie’s rifle was empty, a brawny savage armed with a
“sime”, or sword, made a rush for him. The clergyman flung down his
gun, and drawing his huge carver from his elastic belt (his revolver
had dropped out in the fight), they closed in desperate struggle.
Presently, locked in a close embrace, missionary and Masai rolled on
the ground behind the wall, and for some time I, being amply occupied
with my own affairs, and in keeping my skin from being pricked,
remained in ignorance of his fate or how the duel had ended.

To and fro surged the fight, slowly turning round like the vortex of a
human whirlpool, and the matter began to look very bad for us. Just
then, however, a fortunate thing happened. Umslopogaas, either by
accident or design, broke out of the ring and engaged a warrior at some
few paces from it. As he did so, another man ran up and struck him with
all his force between his shoulders with his great spear, which,
falling on the tough steel shirt, failed to pierce it and rebounded.
For a moment the man stared aghast—protective armour being unknown
among these tribes—and then he yelled out at the top of his voice—

“_They are devils—bewitched, bewitched!_” And seized by a sudden panic,
he threw down his spear, and began to fly. I cut short his career with
a bullet, and Umslopogaas brained his man, and then the panic spread to
the others.

“_Bewitched, bewitched!_” they cried, and tried to escape in every
direction, utterly demoralized and broken-spirited, for the most part
even throwing down their shields and spears.

On the last scene of that dreadful fight I need not dwell. It was a
slaughter great and grim, in which no quarter was asked or given. One
incident, however, is worth detailing. Just as I was hoping that it was
all done with, suddenly from under a heap of slain where he had been
hiding, an unwounded warrior sprang up, and, clearing the piles of
dying dead like an antelope, sped like the wind up the kraal towards
the spot where I was standing at the moment. But he was not alone, for
Umslopogaas came gliding on his tracks with the peculiar swallow-like
motion for which he was noted, and as they neared me I recognized in
the Masai the herald of the previous night. Finding that, run as he
would, his pursuer was gaining on him, the man halted and turned round
to give battle. Umslopogaas also pulled up.

“Ah, ah,” he cried, in mockery, to the Elmoran, “it is thou whom I
talked with last night—the Lygonani! the Herald! the capturer of little
girls—he who would kill a little girl! And thou didst hope to stand man
to man and face to face with Umslopogaas, an Induna of the tribe of the
Maquilisini, of the people of the Amazulu? Behold, thy prayer is
granted! And I didst swear to hew thee limb from limb, thou insolent
dog. Behold, I will do it even now!”

The Masai ground his teeth with fury, and charged at the Zulu with his
spear. As he came, Umslopogaas deftly stepped aside, and swinging
Inkosi-kaas high above his head with both hands, brought the broad
blade down with such fearful force from behind upon the Masai’s
shoulder just where the neck is set into the frame, that its razor edge
shore right through bone and flesh and muscle, almost severing the head
and one arm from the body.

“_Ou!_” ejaculated Umslopogaas, contemplating the corpse of his foe; “I
have kept my word. It was a good stroke.”




CHAPTER VIII.
ALPHONSE EXPLAINS


And so the fight was ended. On returning from the shocking scene it
suddenly struck me that I had seen nothing of Alphonse since the
moment, some twenty minutes before—for though this fight has taken a
long while to describe, it did not take long in reality—when I had been
forced to hit him in the wind with the result of nearly getting myself
shot. Fearing that the poor little man had perished in the battle, I
began to hunt among the dead for his body, but, not being able either
to see or hear anything of it, I concluded that he must have survived,
and walked down the side of the kraal where we had first taken our
stand, calling him by name. Now some fifteen paces back from the kraal
wall stood a very ancient tree of the banyan species. So ancient was it
that all the inside had in the course of ages decayed away, leaving
nothing but a shell of bark.

“Alphonse,” I called, as I walked down the wall. “Alphonse!”

“Oui, monsieur,” answered a voice. “Here am I.”

I looked round but could see nobody. “Where?” I cried.

“Here am I, monsieur, in the tree.”

I looked, and there, peering out of a hole in the trunk of the banyan
about five feet from the ground, I saw a pale face and a pair of large
mustachios, one clipped short and the other as lamentably out of curl
as the tail of a newly whipped pug. Then, for the first time, I
realised what I had suspected before—namely, that Alphonse was an
arrant coward. I walked up to him. “Come out of that hole,” I said.

“Is it finished, monsieur?” he asked anxiously; “quite finished? Ah,
the horrors I have undergone, and the prayers I have uttered!”

“Come out, you little wretch,” I said, for I did not feel amiable; “it
is all over.”

“So, monsieur, then my prayers have prevailed? I emerge,” and he did.

As we were walking down together to join the others, who were gathered
in a group by the wide entrance to the kraal, which now resembled a
veritable charnel-house, a Masai, who had escaped so far and been
hiding under a bush, suddenly sprang up and charged furiously at us.
Off went Alphonse with a howl of terror, and after him flew the Masai,
bent upon doing some execution before he died. He soon overtook the
poor little Frenchman, and would have finished him then and there had I
not, just as Alphonse made a last agonized double in the vain hope of
avoiding the yard of steel that was flashing in his immediate rear,
managed to plant a bullet between the Elmoran’s broad shoulders, which
brought matters to a satisfactory conclusion so far as the Frenchman
was concerned. But just then he tripped and fell flat, and the body of
the Masai fell right on the top of him, moving convulsively in the
death struggle. Thereupon there arose such a series of piercing howls
that I concluded that before he died the savage must have managed to
stab poor Alphonse. I ran up in a hurry and pulled the Masai off, and
there beneath him lay Alphonse covered with blood and jerking himself
about like a galvanized frog. Poor fellow! thought I, he is done for,
and kneeling down by him I began to search for his wound as well as his
struggles would allow.

“Oh, the hole in my back!” he yelled. “I am murdered. I am dead. Oh,
Annette!”

I searched again, but could see no wound. Then the truth dawned on
me—the man was frightened, not hurt.

“Get up!” I shouted, “Get up. Aren’t you ashamed of yourself? You are
not touched.”

Thereupon he rose, not a penny the worse. “But, monsieur, I thought I
was,” he said apologetically; “I did not know that I had conquered.”
Then, giving the body of the Masai a kick, he ejaculated triumphantly,
“Ah, dog of a black savage, thou art dead; what victory!”

Thoroughly disgusted, I left Alphonse to look after himself, which he
did by following me like a shadow, and proceeded to join the others by
the large entrance. The first thing that I saw was Mackenzie, seated on
a stone with a handkerchief twisted round his thigh, from which he was
bleeding freely, having, indeed, received a spear-thrust that passed
right through it, and still holding in his hand his favourite carving
knife now bent nearly double, from which I gathered that he had been
successful in his rough and tumble with the Elmoran.

“Ah, Quatermain!” he sang out in a trembling, excited voice, “so we
have conquered; but it is a sorry sight, a sorry sight;” and then
breaking into broad Scotch and glancing at the bent knife in his hand,
“It fashes me sair to have bent my best carver on the breastbone of a
savage,” and he laughed hysterically. Poor fellow, what between his
wound and the killing excitement he had undergone his nerves were much
shaken, and no wonder! It is hard upon a man of peace and kindly heart
to be called upon to join in such a gruesome business. But there, fate
puts us sometimes into very comical positions!

At the kraal entrance the scene was a strange one. The slaughter was
over by now, and the wounded men had been put out of their pain, for no
quarter had been given. The bush-closed entrance was trampled flat, and
in place of bushes it was filled with the bodies of dead men. Dead men,
everywhere dead men—they lay about in knots, they were flung by ones
and twos in every position upon the open spaces, for all the world like
the people on the grass in one of the London parks on a particularly
hot Sunday in August. In front of this entrance, on a space which had
been cleared of dead and of the shields and spears which were scattered
in all directions as they had fallen or been thrown from the hands of
their owners, stood and lay the survivors of the awful struggle, and at
their feet were four wounded men. We had gone into the fight thirty
strong, and of the thirty but fifteen remained alive, and five of them
(including Mr Mackenzie) were wounded, two mortally. Of those who held
the entrance, Curtis and the Zulu alone remained. Good had lost five
men killed, I had lost two killed, and Mackenzie no less than five out
of the six with him. As for the survivors they were, with the exception
of myself who had never come to close quarters, red from head to
foot—Sir Henry’s armour might have been painted that colour—and utterly
exhausted, except Umslopogaas, who, as he grimly stood on a little
mound above a heap of dead, leaning as usual upon his axe, did not seem
particularly distressed, although the skin over the hole in his head
palpitated violently.

“Ah, Macumazahn!” he said to me as I limped up, feeling very sick, “I
told thee that it would be a good fight, and it has. Never have I seen
a better, or one more bravely fought. As for this iron shirt, surely it
is ‘tagati’ [bewitched]; nothing could pierce it. Had it not been for
the garment I should have been _there_,” and he nodded towards the
great pile of dead men beneath him.

“I give it thee; thou art a brave man,” said Sir Henry, briefly.

“Koos!” answered the Zulu, deeply pleased both at the gift and the
compliment. “Thou, too, Incubu, didst bear thyself as a man, but I must
give thee some lessons with the axe; thou dost waste thy strength.”

Just then Mackenzie asked about Flossie, and we were all greatly
relieved when one of the men said he had seen her flying towards the
house with the nurse. Then bearing such of the wounded as could be
moved at the moment with us, we slowly made our way towards the
Mission-house, spent with toil and bloodshed, but with the glorious
sense of victory against overwhelming odds glowing in our hearts. We
had saved the life of the little maid, and taught the Masai of those
parts a lesson that they will not forget for ten years—but at what a
cost!

Painfully we made our way up the hill which, just a little more than an
hour before, we had descended under such different circumstances. At
the gate of the wall stood Mrs Mackenzie waiting for us. When her eyes
fell upon us, however, she shrieked out, and covered her face with her
hands, crying, “Horrible, horrible!” Nor were her fears allayed when
she discovered her worthy husband being borne upon an improvised
stretcher; but her doubts as to the nature of his injury were soon set
at rest. Then when in a few brief words I had told her the upshot of
the struggle (of which Flossie, who had arrived in safety, had been
able to explain something) she came up to me and solemnly kissed me on
the forehead.

“God bless you all, Mr Quatermain; you have saved my child’s life,” she
said simply.

Then we went in and got our clothes off and doctored our wounds; I am
glad to say I had none, and Sir Henry’s and Good’s were, thanks to
those invaluable chain shirts, of a comparatively harmless nature, and
to be dealt with by means of a few stitches and sticking-plaster.
Mackenzie’s, however, were serious, though fortunately the spear had
not severed any large artery. After that we had a bath, and what a
luxury it was! And having clad ourselves in ordinary clothes, proceeded
to the dining-room, where breakfast was set as usual. It was curious
sitting down there, drinking tea and eating toast in an ordinary
nineteenth-century sort of way just as though we had not employed the
early hours in a regular primitive hand-to-hand Middle-Ages kind of
struggle. As Good said, the whole thing seemed more as though one had
had a bad nightmare just before being called, than as a deed done. When
we were finishing our breakfast the door opened, and in came little
Flossie, very pale and tottery, but quite unhurt. She kissed us all and
thanked us. I congratulated her on the presence of mind she had shown
in shooting the Masai with her Derringer pistol, and thereby saving her
own life.

“Oh, don’t talk of it!” she said, beginning to cry hysterically; “I
shall never forget his face as he went turning round and round, never—I
can see it now.”

I advised her to go to bed and get some sleep, which she did, and awoke
in the evening quite recovered, so far as her strength was concerned.
It struck me as an odd thing that a girl who could find the nerve to
shoot a huge black ruffian rushing to kill her with a spear should have
been so affected at the thought of it afterwards; but it is, after all,
characteristic of the sex. Poor Flossie! I fear that her nerves will
not get over that night in the Masai camp for many a long year. She
told me afterwards that it was the suspense that was so awful, having
to sit there hour after hour through the livelong night utterly
ignorant as to whether or not any attempt was to be made to rescue her.
She said that on the whole she did not expect it, knowing how few of
us, and how many of the Masai—who, by the way, came continually to
stare at her, most of them never having seen a white person before, and
handled her arms and hair with their filthy paws. She said also that
she had made up her mind that if she saw no signs of succour by the
time the first rays of the rising sun reached the kraal she would kill
herself with the pistol, for the nurse had heard the Lygonani say that
they were to be tortured to death as soon as the sun was up if one of
the white men did not come in their place. It was an awful resolution
to have to take, but she meant to act on it, and I have little doubt
but what she would have done so. Although she was at an age when in
England girls are in the schoolroom and come down to dessert, this
“child of the wilderness” had more courage, discretion, and power of
mind than many a woman of mature age nurtured in idleness and luxury,
with minds carefully drilled and educated out of any originality or
self-resource that nature may have endowed them with.

When breakfast was over we all turned in and had a good sleep, only
getting up in time for dinner; after which meal we once more adjourned,
together with all the available population—men, women, youths, and
girls—to the scene of the morning’s slaughter, our object being to bury
our own dead and get rid of the Masai by flinging them into the Tana
River, which ran within fifty yards of the kraal. On reaching the spot
we disturbed thousands upon thousands of vultures and a sort of brown
bush eagle, which had been flocking to the feast from miles and miles
away. Often have I watched these great and repulsive birds, and
marvelled at the extraordinary speed with which they arrive on a scene
of slaughter. A buck falls to your rifle, and within a minute high in
the blue ether appears a speck that gradually grows into a vulture,
then another, and another. I have heard many theories advanced to
account for the wonderful power of perception nature has given these
birds. My own, founded on a good deal of observation, is that the
vultures, gifted as they are with powers of sight greater than those
given by the most powerful glass, quarter out the heavens among
themselves, and hanging in mid-air at a vast height—probably from two
to three miles above the earth—keep watch, each of them, over an
enormous stretch of country. Presently one of them spies food, and
instantly begins to sink towards it. Thereon his next neighbour in the
airy heights sailing leisurely through the blue gulf, at a distance
perhaps of some miles, follows his example, knowing that food has been
sighted. Down he goes, and all the vultures within sight of him follow
after, and so do all those in sight of them. In this way the vultures
for twenty miles round can be summoned to the feast in a few minutes.

We buried our dead in solemn silence, Good being selected to read the
Burial Service over them (in the absence of Mr Mackenzie, confined to
bed), as he was generally allowed to possess the best voice and most
impressive manner. It was melancholy in the extreme, but, as Good said,
it might have been worse, for we might have had “to bury ourselves”. I
pointed out that this would have been a difficult feat, but I knew what
he meant.

Next we set to work to load an ox-wagon which had been brought round
from the Mission with the dead bodies of the Masai, having first
collected the spears, shields, and other arms. We loaded the wagon five
times, about fifty bodies to the load, and emptied it into the Tana.
From this it was evident that very few of the Masai could have escaped.
The crocodiles must have been well fed that night. One of the last
bodies we picked up was that of the sentry at the upper end. I asked
Good how he managed to kill him, and he told me that he had crept up
much as Umslopogaas had done, and stabbed him with his sword. He
groaned a good deal, but fortunately nobody heard him. As Good said, it
was a horrible thing to have to do, and most unpleasantly like
cold-blooded murder.

And so with the last body that floated away down the current of the
Tana ended the incident of our attack on the Masai camp. The spears and
shields and other arms we took up to the Mission, where they filled an
outhouse. One incident, however, I must not forget to mention. As we
were returning from performing the obsequies of our Masai friends we
passed the hollow tree where Alphonse had secreted himself in the
morning. It so happened that the little man himself was with us
assisting in our unpleasant task with a far better will than he had
shown where live Masai were concerned. Indeed, for each body that he
handled he found an appropriate sarcasm. Alphonse throwing Masai into
the Tana was a very different creature from Alphonse flying for dear
life from the spear of a live Masai. He was quite merry and gay, he
clapped his hands and warbled snatches of French songs as the grim dead
warriors went “splash” into the running waters to carry a message of
death and defiance to their kindred a hundred miles below. In short,
thinking that he wanted taking down a peg, I suggested holding a
court-martial on him for his conduct in the morning.

Accordingly we brought him to the tree where he had hidden, and
proceeded to sit in judgment on him, Sir Henry explaining to him in the
very best French the unheard-of cowardice and enormity of his conduct,
more especially in letting the oiled rag out of his mouth, whereby he
nearly aroused the Masai camp with teeth-chattering and brought about
the failure of our plans: ending up with a request for an explanation.

But if we expected to find Alphonse at a loss and put him to open shame
we were destined to be disappointed. He bowed and scraped and smiled,
and acknowledged that his conduct might at first blush appear strange,
but really it was not, inasmuch as his teeth were not chattering from
fear—oh, dear no! oh, certainly not! he marvelled how the “messieurs”
could think of such a thing—but from the chill air of the morning. As
for the rag, if monsieur could have but tasted its evil flavour, being
compounded indeed of a mixture of stale paraffin oil, grease, and
gunpowder, monsieur himself would have spat it out. But he did nothing
of the sort; he determined to keep it there till, alas! his stomach
“revolted”, and the rag was ejected in an access of involuntary
sickness.

“And what have you to say about getting into the hollow tree?” asked
Sir Henry, keeping his countenance with difficulty.

“But, monsieur, the explanation is easy; oh, most easy! it was thus: I
stood there by the kraal wall, and the little grey monsieur hit me in
the stomach so that my rifle exploded, and the battle began. I watched
whilst recovering myself from monsieur’s cruel blow; then, messieurs, I
felt the heroic blood of my grandfather boil up in my veins. The sight
made me mad. I ground my teeth! Fire flashed from my eyes! I shouted
‘En avant!’ and longed to slay. Before my eyes there rose a vision of
my heroic grandfather! In short, I was mad! I was a warrior indeed! But
then in my heart I heard a small voice: ‘Alphonse,’ said the voice,
‘restrain thyself, Alphonse! Give not way to this evil passion! These
men, though black, are brothers! And thou wouldst slay them? Cruel
Alphonse!’ The voice was right. I knew it; I was about to perpetrate
the most horrible cruelties: to wound! to massacre! to tear limb from
limb! And how restrain myself? I looked round; I saw the tree, I
perceived the hole. ‘Entomb thyself,’ said the voice, ‘and hold on
tight! Thou wilt thus overcome temptation by main force!’ It was
bitter, just when the blood of my heroic grandfather boiled most
fiercely; but I obeyed! I dragged my unwilling feet along; I entombed
myself! Through the hole I watched the battle! I shouted curses and
defiance on the foe! I noted them fall with satisfaction! Why not? I
had not robbed them of their lives. Their gore was not upon my head.
The blood of my heroic—”

“Oh, get along with you, you little cur!” broke out Sir Henry, with a
shout of laughter, and giving Alphonse a good kick which sent him
flying off with a rueful face.

In the evening I had an interview with Mr Mackenzie, who was suffering
a good deal from his wounds, which Good, who was a skilful though
unqualified doctor, was treating him for. He told me that this
occurrence had taught him a lesson, and that, if he recovered safely,
he meant to hand over the Mission to a younger man, who was already on
his road to join him in his work, and return to England.

“You see, Quatermain,” he said, “I made up my mind to it, this very
morning, when we were creeping down those benighted savages. ‘If we
live through this and rescue Flossie alive,’ I said to myself, ‘I will
go home to England; I have had enough of savages.’ Well, I did not
think that we should live through it at the time; but thanks be to God
and you four, we have lived through it, and I mean to stick to my
resolution, lest a worse thing befall us. Another such time would kill
my poor wife. And besides, Quatermain, between you and me, I am well
off; it is thirty thousand pounds I am worth today, and every farthing
of it made by honest trade and savings in the bank at Zanzibar, for
living here costs me next to nothing. So though it will be hard to
leave this place, which I have made to blossom like a rose in the
wilderness, and harder still to leave the people I have taught, I shall
go.”

“I congratulate you on your decision,” answered I, “for two reasons.
The first is, that you owe a duty to your wife and daughter, and more
especially to the latter, who should receive some education and mix
with girls of her own race, otherwise she will grow up wild, shunning
her kind. The other is, that as sure as I am standing here, sooner or
later the Masai will try to avenge the slaughter inflicted on them
today. Two or three men are sure to have escaped the confusion who will
carry the story back to their people, and the result will be that a
great expedition will one day be sent against you. It might be delayed
for a year, but sooner or later it will come. Therefore, if only for
that reason, I should go. When once they have learnt that you are no
longer here they may perhaps leave the place alone.”[8]

 [8] By a sad coincidence, since the above was written by Mr
 Quatermain, the Masai have, in April 1886, massacred a missionary and
 his wife—Mr and Mrs Houghton—on this very Tana River, and at the spot
 described. These are, I believe, the first white people who are known
 to have fallen victims to this cruel tribe.—Editor.

“You are quite right,” answered the clergyman. “I will turn my back
upon this place in a month. But it will be a wrench, it will be a
wrench.”




CHAPTER IX.
INTO THE UNKNOWN


A week had passed, and we all sat at supper one night in the Mission
dining-room, feeling very much depressed in spirits, for the reason
that we were going to say goodbye to our kind friends, the Mackenzies,
and depart upon our way at dawn on the morrow. Nothing more had been
seen or heard of the Masai, and save for a spear or two which had been
overlooked and was rusting in the grass, and a few empty cartridges
where we had stood outside the wall, it would have been difficult to
tell that the old cattle kraal at the foot of the slope had been the
scene of so desperate a struggle. Mackenzie was, thanks chiefly to his
being so temperate a man, rapidly recovering from his wound, and could
get about on a pair of crutches; and as for the other wounded men, one
had died of gangrene, and the rest were in a fair way to recovery. Mr
Mackenzie’s caravan of men had also returned from the coast, so that
the station was now amply garrisoned.

Under these circumstances we concluded, warm and pressing as were the
invitations for us to stay, that it was time to move on, first to Mount
Kenia, and thence into the unknown in search of the mysterious white
race which we had set our hearts on discovering. This time we were
going to progress by means of the humble but useful donkey, of which we
had collected no less than a dozen, to carry our goods and chattels,
and, if necessary, ourselves. We had now but two Wakwafis left for
servants, and found it quite impossible to get other natives to venture
with us into the unknown parts we proposed to explore—and small blame
to them. After all, as Mr Mackenzie said, it was odd that three men,
each of whom possessed many of those things that are supposed to make
life worth living—health, sufficient means, and position, etc.—should
from their own pleasure start out upon a wild-goose chase, from which
the chances were they never would return. But then that is what
Englishmen are, adventurers to the backbone; and all our magnificent
muster-roll of colonies, each of which will in time become a great
nation, testify to the extraordinary value of the spirit of adventure
which at first sight looks like a mild form of lunacy. “Adventurer”—he
that goes out to meet whatever may come. Well, that is what we all do
in the world one way or another, and, speaking for myself, I am proud
of the title, because it implies a brave heart and a trust in
Providence. Besides, when many and many a noted Croesus, at whose feet
the people worship, and many and many a time-serving and word-coining
politician are forgotten, the names of those grand-hearted old
adventurers who have made England what she is, will be remembered and
taught with love and pride to little children whose unshaped spirits
yet slumber in the womb of centuries to be. Not that we three can
expect to be numbered with such as these, yet have we done
something—enough, perhaps, to throw a garment over the nakedness of our
folly.

That evening, whilst we were sitting on the veranda, smoking a pipe
before turning in, who should come up to us but Alphonse, and, with a
magnificent bow, announce his wish for an interview. Being requested to
“fire away”, he explained at some length that he was anxious to attach
himself to our party—a statement that astonished me not a little,
knowing what a coward the little man was. The reason, however, soon
appeared. Mr Mackenzie was going down to the coast, and thence on to
England. Now, if he went down country, Alphonse was persuaded that he
would be seized, extradited, sent to France, and to penal servitude.
This was the idea that haunted him, as King Charles’s head haunted Mr
Dick, and he brooded over it till his imagination exaggerated the
danger ten times. As a matter of fact, the probability is that his
offence against the laws of his country had long ago been forgotten,
and that he would have been allowed to pass unmolested anywhere except
in France; but he could not be got to see this. Constitutional coward
as the little man was, he infinitely preferred to face the certain
hardships and great risks and dangers of such an expedition as ours,
than to expose himself, notwithstanding his intense longing for his
native land, to the possible scrutiny of a police officer—which is
after all only another exemplification of the truth that, to the
majority of men, a far-off foreseen danger, however shadowy, is much
more terrible than the most serious present emergency. After listening
to what he had to say, we consulted among ourselves, and finally
agreed, with Mr Mackenzie’s knowledge and consent, to accept his offer.
To begin with, we were very short-handed, and Alphonse was a quick,
active fellow, who could turn his hand to anything, and cook—ah, he
_could_ cook! I believe that he would have made a palatable dish of
those gaiters of his heroic grandfather which he was so fond of talking
about. Then he was a good-tempered little man, and merry as a monkey,
whilst his pompous, vainglorious talk was a source of infinite
amusement to us; and what is more, he never bore malice. Of course, his
being so pronounced a coward was a great drawback to him, but now that
we knew his weakness we could more or less guard against it. So, after
warning him of the undoubted risks he was exposing himself to, we told
him that we would accept his offer on condition that he would promise
implicit obedience to our orders. We also promised to give him wages at
the rate of ten pounds a month should he ever return to a civilized
country to receive them. To all of this he agreed with alacrity, and
retired to write a letter to his Annette, which Mr Mackenzie promised
to post when he got down country. He read it to us afterwards, Sir
Henry translating, and a wonderful composition it was. I am sure the
depth of his devotion and the narration of his sufferings in a
barbarous country, “far, far from thee, Annette, for whose adored sake
I endure such sorrow,” ought to have touched the feelings of the
stoniest-hearted chambermaid.

Well, the morrow came, and by seven o’clock the donkeys were all
loaded, and the time of parting was at hand. It was a melancholy
business, especially saying goodbye to dear little Flossie. She and I
were great friends, and often used to have talks together—but her
nerves had never got over the shock of that awful night when she lay in
the power of those bloodthirsty Masai. “Oh, Mr Quatermain,” she cried,
throwing her arms round my neck and bursting into tears, “I can’t bear
to say goodbye to you. I wonder when we shall meet again?”

“I don’t know, my dear little girl,” I said, “I am at one end of life
and you are at the other. I have but a short time before me at best,
and most things lie in the past, but I hope that for you there are many
long and happy years, and everything lies in the future. By-and-by you
will grow into a beautiful woman, Flossie, and all this wild life will
be like a far-off dream to you; but I hope, even if we never do meet
again, that you will think of your old friend and remember what I say
to you now. Always try to be good, my dear, and to do what is right,
rather than what happens to be pleasant, for in the end, whatever
sneering people may say, what is good and what is happy are the same.
Be unselfish, and whenever you can, give a helping hand to others—for
the world is full of suffering, my dear, and to alleviate it is the
noblest end that we can set before us. If you do that you will become a
sweet and God-fearing woman, and make many people’s lives a little
brighter, and then you will not have lived, as so many of your sex do,
in vain. And now I have given you a lot of old-fashioned advice, and so
I am going to give you something to sweeten it with. You see this
little piece of paper. It is what is called a cheque. When we are gone
give it to your father with this note—not before, mind. You will marry
one day, my dear little Flossie, and it is to buy you a wedding present
which you are to wear, and your daughter after you, if you have one, in
remembrance of Hunter Quatermain.”

Poor little Flossie cried very much, and gave me a lock of her bright
hair in return, which I still have. The cheque I gave her was for a
thousand pounds (which being now well off, and having no calls upon me
except those of charity, I cou

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