Allan Quatermain : being an account of his further adventures and discoveries in company with Sir Henry Curtis, Bart, Commander John Good, R.N, and one Umslopogaas [A sequel to 'King Solomon's Mines.' With twenty illustrations by C. M. H. Kerr.] L.P

Front matter

LARGE PAPER Only One Hundred and Twelve Copies of this Edition have been printed THIS COPY IS NUMBER ALLAN QUATERMAIN &pf]v^iT u>pvt9€s rbv afj,at_udK€TOv Tro\€fj.iaT7)V M^5. v6jaov £ov6ol fieKirer' arjfiovldzs. Atyviriol 5' apa t6v%€ Kivvpofitvoi irTepvy€<T(Tt KpVTTT€T del <TKt€pCUS a^fia to5' 'Y17A07. oyou. sloA-Aa yap alyviriovs SenrvisriTev a^efAt^os -j}p_js 2uj/ ire A -fleet _u.efj.aws 4v (raicetcv irardyw. Lament, ye birds, the battle's fallen star. But you, sweet nightingales, forbear to sing, Ve vultures only, floating from afar, Shriek o'er the sepulchre on shadowy wing Of him that fed yon full with spoils of war While through the smitten shields his axe would ring. A. Lang, Allan Quatermain being an account of his FURTHER ADVENTURES AND DISCOVERIES IN COMPANY WITH SIR HENRY CURTIS, Bart., COMMANDER JOHN GOOD, R.N AND ONE UMSLOPOGAAS BY II.

RIDER HAGGARD AUTHOR OP 'SHE' 'KING SOLOMON'S MINES' ETC. El- Bfrica semper aliquft novi LONDON LONGMANS, GREEN, AND CO. 1887 Alt rights reserved POINTED UY SPOTTISWOODE AND LO., NEW-STREET SQUARE L"N1>0N HE 1887 I INSCRIBE THIS BOOK OE ADVENTURE TO MY SON ARTHUR JOHN RIDER HAGGARD IN THE HOPE THAT IN DAY'S TO COME I, 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 EEACH TO WHAT, WITH SIR HENRY CURTIS, I HOLD TO BE THE HIGHEST RANK WHERETO WE CAN ATTAIN — THE STATE AND DIGNITY OF ENGLISH GENTLEMEN a CONTENTS. PAGE Introduction 1 I. The Consul's Yarn !) II. The Black Hand 24 III. The Mission Station 35 IV. Alphonse and his Annette . . . . . . 47 V. Umslopogaas Makes a Promise 53 VI.

The Night Wears on 75 VII. A Slaughter Grim and Great 87 VIII. Alphonse Explains 101 IX. Into the Unknown . 113 X. The Rose of Fire 127 XI. The Frowning City 142 XII. The Sister Queens 158 XIII. About the Zu-Vendi People 173 XIV. The Flower Temple 191 XV. Sorais' Song 20;) XVI. Before the Statue 22-4 CONTENTS X TAGE XVII. The Storm Breaks 235 XVIII. War ! Red War ! 249 XIX. A Strange Wedding ....... 265 XX. The Battle of the Pass ....... 276 XXI. Away ! Away ! 292 XXII. How Umslopogaas Held the Stair . . ... 303 XXIII. I Have Spoken 318 XXIV. By Another Hand 327 Authorities . . ... . . . . LIST OF PLATES. (Engraved on wood by J. Cooper from drawings by C. H. M. Kerb.) Portrait of Allan Quatermain Frontispiece 'It's a big order,' said Sir Henry, reflectively . . To face p. 12 A Masai Elmoran „ 28 ' We all examined it and shook our heads ' . . . ,, II ' The great Zulu made a spring '....,, 'JO ' Umslopogaas, leaning as usual upon his axe ' . . „ 104 Into the Unknown ' . ■ ,, 118 The Rose of Fire „ 132 The Devils of. the Place ., HO The Approach to MiLObis ,, 150 The Sister Queens ,, 168 Sorais' Song 222 Before the Statue ....... ,, 228 ' I saw the knife flash ' „ 21b ' I, Nyleptha, take thee, Henry ' . . . . „ LIST OF PLATES XII A Ride for the Queen's Life . ....

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 small-pox hospital.

He wrote to me that he was not afraid of small-pox 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 B 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 clotli ! 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 w7rite, 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

INTRODUCTION.

3 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 w-alls 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 ' Weeaen,' 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 b 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 w7ild 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 indif ferent, 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 w7ide 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 civilised life. Ah ! this civilisation, 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 tbe ways of the children of light ; and what have I found?

A great gulf fixed ? No, only a very little one, that a plain in n's thought may spring across. I say that as the savage is, so is the white man, only the latter is more

INTRODUCTION.

5 invent i messes the faculty of combination ; save and except __fc 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 civilisation are identical. I dare say that the highly civilised 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 tbe 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 re semblance, 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 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? Civi lisation 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 civilisation fell, as the Hellenic civilisation fell, and as the Roman civilisation 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 ex perience of humanity applied for the good of aW. ' -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 civilisation ? 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 under stand the limitations of our nature, so that we may not be carried away by the pride of knowledge. Man's cleverness is almost infinite, 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 on the other, but you will never, while the w7orld endures and man is man, increase its total circumference. It is the one fixed un changeable 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 wbich represent our passions, hopes, fears, joys, aspira tions 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

INTRODUCTION.

7 divide ourselves into twenty parts, nineteen savage and one civilised, 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. Civilisation 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, civilisation fails us utterly.

Back, back, we creep, and lay us like little children on the great breast of Nature, that she 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 w-e came, and with whom we shall again be mingled, who gave us birth, and will in a clay 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, imdefiled 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 Pohtical 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.

CHAPTEB 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, B.N. 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 think ing what a curious contrast my little dried-up self presented ALL. AN QUATERMAIN > 10 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 stand ing up like a halfworn 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 ' — Anglice, 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 fact of 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. THE CONSUL'S YARN 11 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 civilisation.

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 except play the squire in a country that is sick of ALLAN QUATERMAIN 12 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, Quater main, 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. IT'S a big order,' said sir henry, reflectively ' 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. Leka kisera, 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 civilisation, 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 wdrite 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 yourwhite 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 ALLAN QUATERMALN 14 existence because you do not happen to have heard of them. Bemember King Solomon's Mines ! ' Some fourteen weeks or so had passed since the date of this conversation, and this history goes on its way hi very different surroundings.

After much deliberation and inquiry we came to the con clusion that our best starting-point for Mt. Kenia would be from the neighbourhood of the mouth of the Tana River, and not from Mombasa, 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.