الفصل الفصل 1 · I MEET SIR HENRY CURTIS

. I MEET SIR HENRY CURTIS

It is a curious thing that at my age—fifty-five last birthday—I should

find myself taking up a pen to try to write a history. I wonder what

sort of a history it will be when I have finished it, if ever I come to

the end of the trip! I have done a good many things in my life, which

seems a long one to me, owing to my having begun work so young,

perhaps. At an age when other boys are at school I was earning my

living as a trader in the old Colony. I have been trading, hunting,

fighting, or mining ever since. And yet it is only eight months ago

that I made my pile. It is a big pile now that I have got it—I don’t

yet know how big—but I do not think I would go through the last fifteen

or sixteen months again for it; no, not if I knew that I should come

out safe at the end, pile and all. But then I am a timid man, and

dislike violence; moreover, I am almost sick of adventure. I wonder why

I am going to write this book: it is not in my line. I am not a

literary man, though very devoted to the Old Testament and also to the

“Ingoldsby Legends.” Let me try to set down my reasons, just to see if

I have any.

First reason: Because Sir Henry Curtis and Captain John Good asked me.

Second reason: Because I am laid up here at Durban with the pain in my

left leg. Ever since that confounded lion got hold of me I have been

liable to this trouble, and being rather bad just now, it makes me limp

more than ever. There must be some poison in a lion’s teeth, otherwise

how is it that when your wounds are healed they break out again,

generally, mark you, at the same time of year that you got your

mauling? It is a hard thing when one has shot sixty-five lions or more,

as I have in the course of my life, that the sixty-sixth should chew

your leg like a quid of tobacco. It breaks the routine of the thing,

and putting other considerations aside, I am an orderly man and don’t

like that. This is by the way.

Third reason: Because I want my boy Harry, who is over there at the

hospital in London studying to become a doctor, to have something to

amuse him and keep him out of mischief for a week or so. Hospital work

must sometimes pall and grow rather dull, for even of cutting up dead

bodies there may come satiety, and as this history will not be dull,

whatever else it may be, it will put a little life into things for a

day or two while Harry is reading of our adventures.

Fourth reason and last: Because I am going to tell the strangest story

that I remember. It may seem a queer thing to say, especially

considering that there is no woman in it—except Foulata. Stop, though!

there is Gagaoola, if she was a woman, and not a fiend. But she was a

hundred at least, and therefore not marriageable, so I don’t count her.

At any rate, I can safely say that there is not a _petticoat_ in the

whole history.

Well, I had better come to the yoke. It is a stiff place, and I feel as

though I were bogged up to the axle. But, “_sutjes, sutjes_,” as the

Boers say—I am sure I don’t know how they spell it—softly does it. A

strong team will come through at last, that is, if they are not too

poor. You can never do anything with poor oxen. Now to make a start.

I, Allan Quatermain, of Durban, Natal, Gentleman, make oath and

say—That’s how I headed my deposition before the magistrate about poor

Khiva’s and Ventvögel’s sad deaths; but somehow it doesn’t seem quite

the right way to begin a book. And, besides, am I a gentleman? What is

a gentleman? I don’t quite know, and yet I have had to do with

niggers—no, I will scratch out that word “niggers,” for I do not like

it. I’ve known natives who _are_, and so you will say, Harry, my boy,

before you have done with this tale, and I have known mean whites with

lots of money and fresh out from home, too, who _are not_.

At any rate, I was born a gentleman, though I have been nothing but a

poor travelling trader and hunter all my life. Whether I have remained

so I know not, you must judge of that. Heaven knows I’ve tried. I have

killed many men in my time, yet I have never slain wantonly or stained

my hand in innocent blood, but only in self-defence. The Almighty gave

us our lives, and I suppose He meant us to defend them, at least I have

always acted on that, and I hope it will not be brought up against me

when my clock strikes. There, there, it is a cruel and a wicked world,

and for a timid man I have been mixed up in a great deal of fighting. I

cannot tell the rights of it, but at any rate I have never stolen,

though once I cheated a Kafir out of a herd of cattle. But then he had

done me a dirty turn, and it has troubled me ever since into the

bargain.

Well, it is eighteen months or so ago since first I met Sir Henry

Curtis and Captain Good. It was in this way. I had been up elephant

hunting beyond Bamangwato, and had met with bad luck. Everything went

wrong that trip, and to top up with I got the fever badly. So soon as I

was well enough I trekked down to the Diamond Fields, sold such ivory

as I had, together with my wagon and oxen, discharged my hunters, and

took the post-cart to the Cape. After spending a week in Cape Town,

finding that they overcharged me at the hotel, and having seen

everything there was to see, including the botanical gardens, which

seem to me likely to confer a great benefit on the country, and the new

Houses of Parliament, which I expect will do nothing of the sort, I

determined to go back to Natal by the _Dunkeld_, then lying at the

docks waiting for the _Edinburgh Castle_ due in from England. I took my

berth and went aboard, and that afternoon the Natal passengers from the

_Edinburgh Castle_ transhipped, and we weighed and put to sea.

Among these passengers who came on board were two who excited my

curiosity. One, a gentleman of about thirty, was perhaps the

biggest-chested and longest-armed man I ever saw. He had yellow hair, a

thick yellow beard, clear-cut features, and large grey eyes set deep in

his head. I never saw a finer-looking man, and somehow he reminded me

of an ancient Dane. Not that I know much of ancient Danes, though I

knew a modern Dane who did me out of ten pounds; but I remember once

seeing a picture of some of those gentry, who, I take it, were a kind

of white Zulus. They were drinking out of big horns, and their long

hair hung down their backs. As I looked at my friend standing there by

the companion-ladder, I thought that if he only let his grow a little,

put one of those chain shirts on to his great shoulders, and took hold

of a battle-axe and a horn mug, he might have sat as a model for that

picture. And by the way it is a curious thing, and just shows how the

blood will out, I discovered afterwards that Sir Henry Curtis, for that

was the big man’s name, is of Danish blood.[2] He also reminded me

strongly of somebody else, but at the time I could not remember who it

was.

[2] Mr. Quatermain’s ideas about ancient Danes seem to be rather

confused; we have always understood that they were dark-haired people.

Probably he was thinking of Saxons.—Editor.

The other man, who stood talking to Sir Henry, was stout and dark, and

of quite a different cut. I suspected at once that he was a naval

officer; I don’t know why, but it is difficult to mistake a navy man. I

have gone shooting trips with several of them in the course of my life,

and they have always proved themselves the best and bravest and nicest

fellows I ever met, though sadly given, some of them, to the use of

profane language. I asked a page or two back, what is a gentleman? I’ll

answer the question now: A Royal Naval officer is, in a general sort of

way, though of course there may be a black sheep among them here and

there. I fancy it is just the wide seas and the breath of God’s winds

that wash their hearts and blow the bitterness out of their minds and

make them what men ought to be.

Well, to return, I proved right again; I ascertained that the dark man

_was_ a naval officer, a lieutenant of thirty-one, who, after seventeen

years’ service, had been turned out of her Majesty’s employ with the

barren honour of a commander’s rank, because it was impossible that he

should be promoted. This is what people who serve the Queen have to

expect: to be shot out into the cold world to find a living just when

they are beginning really to understand their work, and to reach the

prime of life. I suppose they don’t mind it, but for my own part I had

rather earn my bread as a hunter. One’s halfpence are as scarce

perhaps, but you do not get so many kicks.

The officer’s name I found out—by referring to the passengers’

lists—was Good—Captain John Good. He was broad, of medium height, dark,

stout, and rather a curious man to look at. He was so very neat and so

very clean-shaved, and he always wore an eye-glass in his right eye. It

seemed to grow there, for it had no string, and he never took it out

except to wipe it. At first I thought he used to sleep in it, but

afterwards I found that this was a mistake. He put it in his trousers

pocket when he went to bed, together with his false teeth, of which he

had two beautiful sets that, my own being none of the best, have often

caused me to break the tenth commandment. But I am anticipating.

Soon after we had got under way evening closed in, and brought with it

very dirty weather. A keen breeze sprung up off land, and a kind of

aggravated Scotch mist soon drove everybody from the deck. As for the

_Dunkeld_, she is a flat-bottomed punt, and going up light as she was,

she rolled very heavily. It almost seemed as though she would go right

over, but she never did. It was quite impossible to walk about, so I

stood near the engines where it was warm, and amused myself with

watching the pendulum, which was fixed opposite to me, swinging slowly

backwards and forwards as the vessel rolled, and marking the angle she

touched at each lurch.

“That pendulum’s wrong; it is not properly weighted,” suddenly said a

somewhat testy voice at my shoulder. Looking round I saw the naval

officer whom I had noticed when the passengers came aboard.

“Indeed, now what makes you think so?” I asked.

“Think so. I don’t think at all. Why there”—as she righted herself

after a roll—“if the ship had really rolled to the degree that thing

pointed to, then she would never have rolled again, that’s all. But it

is just like these merchant skippers, they are always so confoundedly

careless.”

Just then the dinner-bell rang, and I was not sorry, for it is a

dreadful thing to have to listen to an officer of the Royal Navy when

he gets on to that subject. I only know one worse thing, and that is to

hear a merchant skipper express his candid opinion of officers of the

Royal Navy.

Captain Good and I went down to dinner together, and there we found Sir

Henry Curtis already seated. He and Captain Good were placed together,

and I sat opposite to them. The captain and I soon fell into talk about

shooting and what not; he asking me many questions, for he is very

inquisitive about all sorts of things, and I answering them as well as

I could. Presently he got on to elephants.

“Ah, sir,” called out somebody who was sitting near me, “you’ve reached

the right man for that; Hunter Quatermain should be able to tell you

about elephants if anybody can.”

Sir Henry, who had been sitting quite quiet listening to our talk,

started visibly.

“Excuse me, sir,” he said, leaning forward across the table, and

speaking in a low deep voice, a very suitable voice, it seemed to me,

to come out of those great lungs. “Excuse me, sir, but is your name

Allan Quatermain?”

I said that it was.

The big man made no further remark, but I heard him mutter “fortunate”

into his beard.

Presently dinner came to an end, and as we were leaving the saloon Sir

Henry strolled up and asked me if I would come into his cabin to smoke

a pipe. I accepted, and he led the way to the _Dunkeld_ deck cabin, and

a very good cabin it is. It had been two cabins, but when Sir Garnet

Wolseley or one of those big swells went down the coast in the

_Dunkeld_, they knocked away the partition and have never put it up

again. There was a sofa in the cabin, and a little table in front of

it. Sir Henry sent the steward for a bottle of whisky, and the three of

us sat down and lit our pipes.

“Mr. Quatermain,” said Sir Henry Curtis, when the man had brought the

whisky and lit the lamp, “the year before last about this time, you

were, I believe, at a place called Bamangwato, to the north of the

Transvaal.”

“I was,” I answered, rather surprised that this gentleman should be so

well acquainted with my movements, which were not, so far as I was

aware, considered of general interest.

“You were trading there, were you not?” put in Captain Good, in his

quick way.

“I was. I took up a wagon-load of goods, made a camp outside the

settlement, and stopped till I had sold them.”

Sir Henry was sitting opposite to me in a Madeira chair, his arms

leaning on the table. He now looked up, fixing his large grey eyes full

upon my face. There was a curious anxiety in them, I thought.

“Did you happen to meet a man called Neville there?”

“Oh, yes; he outspanned alongside of me for a fortnight to rest his

oxen before going on to the interior. I had a letter from a lawyer a

few months back, asking me if I knew what had become of him, which I

answered to the best of my ability at the time.”

“Yes,” said Sir Henry, “your letter was forwarded to me. You said in it

that the gentleman called Neville left Bamangwato at the beginning of

May in a wagon with a driver, a voorlooper, and a Kafir hunter called

Jim, announcing his intention of trekking if possible as far as Inyati,

the extreme trading post in the Matabele country, where he would sell

his wagon and proceed on foot. You also said that he did sell his

wagon, for six months afterwards you saw the wagon in the possession of

a Portuguese trader, who told you that he had bought it at Inyati from

a white man whose name he had forgotten, and that he believed the white

man with the native servant had started off for the interior on a

shooting trip.”

“Yes.”

Then came a pause.

“Mr. Quatermain,” said Sir Henry suddenly, “I suppose you know or can

guess nothing more of the reasons of my—of Mr. Neville’s journey to the

northward, or as to what point that journey was directed?”

“I heard something,” I answered, and stopped. The subject was one which

I did not care to discuss.

Sir Henry and Captain Good looked at each other, and Captain Good

nodded.

“Mr. Quatermain,” went on the former, “I am going to tell you a story,

and ask your advice, and perhaps your assistance. The agent who

forwarded me your letter told me that I might rely on it implicitly, as

you were,” he said, “well known and universally respected in Natal, and

especially noted for your discretion.”

I bowed and drank some whisky and water to hide my confusion, for I am

a modest man—and Sir Henry went on.

“Mr. Neville was my brother.”

“Oh,” I said, starting, for now I knew of whom Sir Henry had reminded

me when first I saw him. His brother was a much smaller man and had a

dark beard, but now that I thought of it, he possessed eyes of the same

shade of grey and with the same keen look in them: the features too

were not unlike.

“He was,” went on Sir Henry, “my only and younger brother, and till

five years ago I do not suppose that we were ever a month away from

each other. But just about five years ago a misfortune befell us, as

sometimes does happen in families. We quarrelled bitterly, and I

behaved unjustly to my brother in my anger.”

Here Captain Good nodded his head vigorously to himself. The ship gave

a big roll just then, so that the looking-glass, which was fixed

opposite us to starboard, was for a moment nearly over our heads, and

as I was sitting with my hands in my pockets and staring upwards, I

could see him nodding like anything.

“As I daresay you know,” went on Sir Henry, “if a man dies intestate,

and has no property but land, real property it is called in England, it

all descends to his eldest son. It so happened that just at the time

when we quarrelled our father died intestate. He had put off making his

will until it was too late. The result was that my brother, who had not

been brought up to any profession, was left without a penny. Of course

it would have been my duty to provide for him, but at the time the

quarrel between us was so bitter that I did not—to my shame I say it

(and he sighed deeply)—offer to do anything. It was not that I grudged

him justice, but I waited for him to make advances, and he made none. I

am sorry to trouble you with all this, Mr. Quatermain, but I must to

make things clear, eh, Good?”

“Quite so, quite so,” said the captain. “Mr. Quatermain will, I am

sure, keep this history to himself.”

“Of course,” said I, for I rather pride myself on my discretion, for

which, as Sir Henry had heard, I have some repute.

“Well,” went on Sir Henry, “my brother had a few hundred pounds to his

account at the time. Without saying anything to me he drew out this

paltry sum, and, having adopted the name of Neville, started off for

South Africa in the wild hope of making a fortune. This I learned

afterwards. Some three years passed, and I heard nothing of my brother,

though I wrote several times. Doubtless the letters never reached him.

But as time went on I grew more and more troubled about him. I found

out, Mr. Quatermain, that blood is thicker than water.”

“That’s true,” said I, thinking of my boy Harry.

“I found out, Mr. Quatermain, that I would have given half my fortune

to know that my brother George, the only relation I possess, was safe

and well, and that I should see him again.”

“But you never did, Curtis,” jerked out Captain Good, glancing at the

big man’s face.

“Well, Mr. Quatermain, as time went on I became more and more anxious

to find out if my brother was alive or dead, and if alive to get him

home again. I set enquiries on foot, and your letter was one of the

results. So far as it went it was satisfactory, for it showed that till

lately George was alive, but it did not go far enough. So, to cut a

long story short, I made up my mind to come out and look for him

myself, and Captain Good was so kind as to come with me.”

“Yes,” said the captain; “nothing else to do, you see. Turned out by my

Lords of the Admiralty to starve on half pay. And now perhaps, sir, you

will tell us what you know or have heard of the gentleman called

Neville.”