After dinner we thoroughly inspected all the outbuildings and groundsof the station, which I consider the most successful as well as the mostbeautiful place of the sort that I have seen in Africa. We then returnedto the veranda, where we found Umslopogaas taking advantage of thisfavourable opportunity to clean all the rifles thoroughly. This was theonly _work_ that he ever did or was asked to do, for as a Zulu chief itwas beneath his dignity to work with his hands; but such as it was hedid it very well. It was a curious sight to see the great Zulu sittingthere upon the floor, his battleaxe resting against the wall behindhim, whilst his long aristocratic-looking hands were busily employed,delicately and with the utmost care, cleaning the mechanism of thebreech-loaders. He had a name for each gun. One--a double four-borebelonging to Sir Henry--was the Thunderer; another, my 500 Express,which had a peculiarly sharp report, was 'the little one who spoke likea whip'; the Winchester repeaters were 'the women, who talked so fastthat 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 tohear him addressing each gun as he cleaned it, as though it were anindividual, and in a vein of the quaintest humour. He did the same withhis 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 oldadventures with it--and dreadful enough some of them were. By a piece ofgrim humour, he had named this axe 'Inkosi-kaas', which is the Zulu wordfor chieftainess. For a long while I could not make out why he gave itsuch a name, and at last I asked him, when he informed me that the axewas very evidently feminine, because of her womanly habit of prying verydeep into things, and that she was clearly a chieftainess because allmen fell down before her, struck dumb at the sight of her beauty andpower. 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 shemust 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 anenormous rhinoceros horn, was three feet three inches long, about aninch and a quarter thick, and with a knob at the end as large as aMaltese orange, left there to prevent the hand from slipping. Thishorn haft, though so massive, was as flexible as cane, and practicallyunbreakable; but, to make assurance doubly sure, it was whipped roundat intervals of a few inches with copper wire--all the parts where thehands grip being thus treated. Just above where the haft entered thehead were scored a number of little nicks, each nick representing a mankilled in battle with the weapon. The axe itself was made of themost beautiful steel, and apparently of European manufacture, thoughUmslopogaas did not know where it came from, having taken it from thehand of a chief he had killed in battle many years before. It was notvery heavy, the head weighing two and a half pounds, as nearly as Icould judge. The cutting part was slightly concave in shape--not convex,as it generally the case with savage battleaxes--and sharp as a razor,measuring five and three-quarter inches across the widest part. From theback of the axe sprang a stout spike four inches long, for the last twoof which it was hollow, and shaped like a leather punch, with an openingfor anything forced into the hollow at the punch end to be pushedout above--in fact, in this respect it exactly resembled a butcher'spole-axe. It was with this punch end, as we afterwards discovered, thatUmslopogaas usually struck when fighting, driving a neat round holein his adversary's skull, and only using the broad cutting edge for acircular sweep, or sometimes in a melee. I think he considered thepunch a neater and more sportsmanlike tool, and it was from his habitof 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 fatalhand-to-hand weapon that I ever saw, and one which he cherished asmuch as his own life. It scarcely ever left his hand except when he waseating, and then he always sat with it under his leg.
Just as I returned his axe to Umslopogaas, Miss Flossie came up and tookme off to see her collection of flowers, African liliums, and bloomingshrubs, some of which are very beautiful, many of the varieties beingquite unknown to me and also, I believe, to botanical science. I askedher if she had ever seen or heard of the 'Goya' lily, which CentralAfrican explorers have told me they have occasionally met with and whosewonderful loveliness has filled them with astonishment. This lily, whichthe natives say blooms only once in ten years, flourishes in themost arid soil. Compared to the size of the bloom, the bulb is small,generally weighing about four pounds. As for the flower itself (whichI afterwards saw under circumstances likely to impress its appearancefixedly in my mind), I know not how to describe its beauty andsplendour, or the indescribable sweetness of its perfume. Theflower--for it has only one bloom--rises from the crown of the bulb ona thick fleshy and flat-sided stem, the specimen that I saw measuredfourteen inches in diameter, and is somewhat trumpet-shaped like thebloom of an ordinary 'longiflorum' set vertically. First there isthe green sheath, which in its early stage is not unlike that of awater-lily, but which as the bloom opens splits into four portions andcurls back gracefully towards the stem. Then comes the bloom itself, asingle dazzling arch of white enclosing another cup of richest velvetycrimson, from the heart of which rises a golden-coloured pistil. I havenever seen anything to equal this bloom in beauty or fragrance, and asI believe it is but little known, I take the liberty to describe it atlength. Looking at it for the first time I well remember that I realizedhow 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 welland 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 shethought that she could procure me a specimen.
After that I fell to asking her if she was not lonely up here among allthese 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 buriedin a crowd of white girls all just like myself so that nobody could tellthe 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 iswhat they call me--and is ready to do what I want, but in the books thatI have read about little girls in England it is not like that. Everybodythinks them a trouble, and they have to do what their schoolmistresslikes. Oh! it would break my heart to be put in a cage like that and notto 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 thatI 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 dressshe produced a double-barrelled nickel-plated Derringer, 'I always carrythat loaded, and if anybody tried to touch me I should shoot him. OnceI shot a leopard that jumped upon my donkey as I was riding along. Itfrightened 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 alteredvoice, touching me on the arm and pointing to some far-away object, 'Isaid 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 ofMount Kenia. Hitherto the mountain had always been hidden in mist, butnow its radiant beauty was unveiled for many thousand feet, althoughthe base was still wrapped in vapour so that the lofty peak or pillar,towering nearly twenty thousand feet into the sky, appeared to be afairy vision, hanging between earth and heaven, and based upon theclouds. The solemn majesty and beauty of this white peak are togetherbeyond the power of my poor pen to describe. There it rose straight andsheer--a glittering white glory, its crest piercing the very blue ofheaven. As I gazed at it with that little girl I felt my whole heartlifted up with an i
ndescribable emotion, and for a moment great andwonderful thoughts seemed to break upon my mind, even as the arrows ofthe setting sun were breaking upon Kenia's snows. Mr Mackenzie's nativescall the mountain the 'Finger of God', and to me it did seem eloquentof immortal peace and of the pure high calm that surely lies above thisfevered 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 thoroughlyunderstood what it meant. Base, indeed, would be the man who could lookupon that mighty snow-wreathed pile--that white old tombstone of theyears--and not feel his own utter insignificance, and, by whatever namehe calls Him, worship God in his heart. Such sights are like visions ofthe spirit; they throw wide the windows of the chamber of our smallselfishness and let in a breath of that air that rushes round therolling spheres, and for a while illumine our darkness with a far-offgleam of the white light which beats upon the Throne.
Yes, such things of beauty are indeed a joy for ever, and I can wellunderstand what little Flossie meant when she talked of Kenia as hercompanion. As Umslopogaas, savage old Zulu that he was, said when Ipointed out to him the peak hanging in the glittering air: 'A man mightlook thereon for a thousand years and yet be hungry to see.' But he gaverather another colour to his poetical idea when he added in a sort ofchant, and with a touch of that weird imagination for which the man wasremarkable, that when he was dead he should like his spirit to sit uponthat snow-clad peak for ever, and to rush down the steep white sidesin 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 tokill. He who kills not when his blood is hot is a woman, and no man. Thepeople who kill not are slaves. I say I kill in fair fight; and whenI am "in the shadow", as you white men say, I hope to go on killing infair fight. May my shadow be accursed and chilled to the bone for everif 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 findout if there were any traces of our Masai friends about, returned,and reported that the country had been scoured for fifteen miles roundwithout a single Elmoran being seen, and that they believed that thosegentry had given up the pursuit and returned whence they came. MrMackenzie gave a sigh of relief when he heard this, and so indeed didwe, 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 missionstation in safety, they had, knowing its strength, given up the pursuitof 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 forthe night, Alphonse, the little Frenchman, came out, and Sir Henry, whois a very good French scholar, got him to tell us how he came to visitCentral Africa, which he did in a most extraordinary lingo, that for themost part I shall not attempt to reproduce.
'My grandfather,' he began, 'was a soldier of the Guard, and servedunder Napoleon. He was in the retreat from Moscow, and lived for tendays on his own leggings and a pair he stole from a comrade. He used toget 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 nothereditary. My grandfather was a splendid man, six feet two high, broadin proportion, a swallower of fire and gaiters. Also he was remarkablefor his moustache. To me there remains the moustache and--nothing more.
'I am, messieurs, a cook, and I was born at Marseilles. In that deartown I spent my happy youth. For years and years I washed the dishes atthe Hotel Continental. Ah, those were golden days!' and he sighed. 'I ama Frenchman. Need I say, messieurs, that I admire beauty? Nay, I adorethe fair. Messieurs, we admire all the roses in a garden, but we pluckone. I plucked one, and alas, messieurs, it pricked my finger. She wasa chambermaid, her name Annette, her figure ravishing, her facean angel's, her heart--alas, messieurs, that I should have toown it!--black and slippery as a patent leather boot. I loved todesperation, I adored her to despair. She transported me--in everysense; she inspired me. Never have I cooked as I cooked (for I had beenpromoted at the hotel) when Annette, my adored Annette, smiled on me.Never'--and here his manly voice broke into a sob--'never shall I cookso well again.' Here he melted into tears.
'Come, cheer up!' said Sir Henry in French, smacking him smartly on theback. 'There's no knowing what may happen, you know. To judge from yourdinner today, I should say you were in a fair way to recovery.'
Alphonse stopped weeping, and began to rub his back. 'Monsieur,' hesaid, '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 littlenest could not be happier than Alphonse and his Annette. Then came theblow--sapristi!--when I think of it. Messieurs will forgive me if I wipeaway 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 wascaught by brutal soldiers, and they banged me with the butt-endof muskets till my mustachios curled with pain. I had a cousin alinen-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, "tothee, in whose veins flows the blue blood of our heroic grandparent, tothee I consign Annette. Watch over her whilst I hunt for glory in thebloody 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 apoet by nature, and I suffered tortures from the coarse horror of mysurroundings. There was a drill sergeant, and he had a cane. Ah, thatcane, 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 madeenquiries about Tonquin. They were not satisfactory. In Tonquin aresavage Chinese who rip you open. My artistic tastes--for I am also anartist--recoiled from the idea of being ripped open. The great man makesup his mind quickly. I made up my mind. I determined not to be rippedopen. I deserted.
'I reached Marseilles disguised as an old man. I went to the house ofmy cousin--he in whom runs my grandfather's heroic blood--and there satAnnette. It was the season of cherries. They took a double stalk. Ateach end was a cherry. My cousin put one into his mouth, Annette putthe other in hers. Then they drew the stalks in till their eyes met--andalas, alas that I should have to say it!--they kissed. The game wasa pretty one, but it filled me with fury. The heroic blood of mygrandfather boiled up in me. I rushed into the kitchen. I struck mycousin with the old man's crutch. He fell--I had slain him. Alas, Ibelieve that I did slay him. Annette screamed. The gendarmes came. Ifled. I reached the harbour. I hid aboard a vessel. The vessel put tosea. The captain found me and beat me. He took an opportunity. He posteda letter from a foreign port to the police. He did not put me ashorebecause I cooked so well. I cooked for him all the way to Zanzibar. WhenI asked for payment he kicked me. The blood of my heroic grandfatherboiled within me, and I shook my fist in his face and vowed to have myrevenge. He kicked me again. At Zanzibar there was a telegram. I cursedthe man who invented telegraphs. Now I curse him again. I was to bearrested for desertion, for murder, and que sais-je? I escaped fromthe prison. I fled, I starved. I met the men of Monsieur le Cure. Theybrought me here. I am full of woe. But I return not to France. Better torisk my life in these horrible places than to know the Bagne.'
He paused, and we nearly choked with laughter, having t
o turn our facesaway.
'Ah! you weep, messieurs,' he said. 'No wonder--it is a sad story.'
'Perhaps,' said Sir Henry, 'the heroic blood of your grandparent willtriumph after all; perhaps you will still be great. At any rate we shallsee. And now I vote we go to bed. I am dead tired, and we had not muchsleep on that confounded rock last night.'
And so we did, and very strange the tidy rooms and clean white sheetsseemed to us after our recent experiences.
CHAPTER V UMSLOPOGAAS MAKES A PROMISE
Allan Quatermain Page 5