“Maybe, sir, can’t tell. All I know is that I’ve got to buy it as you can bear me witness. Master, he ain’t one to be crossed for money. What he wants, he’ll have, that is if it be in the orchid line.”
“I suppose you are fond of orchids, too, Mr. Woodden?”
“Fond of them, sir? Why, I loves ‘em!” (Here he rocked.) “Don’t feel for nothing else in the same way; not even for my old woman” (then with a burst of enthusiasm) “no, not even for the master himself, and I’m fond enough of him, God knows! But, begging your pardon, sir” (with a pull at his forelock), “would you mind holding that tin of yours a little tighter? I’ve got to keep an eye on that as well as on ‘O. Paving,’ and I just see’d that chap with the tall hat alooking at it suspicious.”
After this we separated. I retired into my corner, while Woodden took his stand by the table, with one eye fixed on what he called the “O. Paving” and the other on me and my tin case.
An odd fish truly, I thought to myself. Positive, the old woman; Comparative, his master; Superlative, the orchid tribe. Those were his degrees of affection. Honest and brave and a good fellow though, I bet.
The sale languished. There were so many lots of one particular sort of dried orchid that buyers could not be found for them at a reasonable price, and many had to be bought in. At length the genial Mr. Primrose in the rostrum addressed the audience.
“Gentlemen,” he said, “I quite understand that you didn’t come here to-day to buy a rather poor lot of Cattleya Mossiæ. You came to buy, or to bid for, or to see sold the most wonderful Odontoglossum that has ever been flowered in this country, the property of a famous firm of importers whom I congratulate upon their good fortune in having obtained such a gem. Gentlemen, this miraculous flower ought to adorn a royal greenhouse. But there it is, to be taken away by whoever will pay the most for it, for I am directed to see that it will be sold without reserve. Now, I think,” he added, running his eye over the company, “that most of our great collectors are represented in this room to-day. It is true that I do not see that spirited and liberal young orchidist, Mr. Somers, but he has left his worthy head-gardener, Mr. Woodden, than whom there is no finer judge of an orchid in England” (here Woodden rocked violently) “to bid for him, as I hope, for the glorious flower of which I have been speaking. Now, as it is exactly half-past one, we will proceed to business. Smith, hand the ‘Odontoglossum Pavo’ round, that everyone may inspect its beauties, and be careful you don’t let it fall. Gentlemen, I must ask you not to touch it or to defile its purity with tobacco smoke. Eight perfect flowers in bloom, gentlemen, and four—no, five more to open. A strong plant in perfect health, six pseudo-bulbs with leaves, and three without. Two black leads which I am advised can be separated off at the proper time. Now, what bids for the ‘Odontoglossum Pavo.’ Ah! I wonder who will have the honour of becoming the owner of this perfect, this unmatched production of Nature. Thank you, sir—three hundred. Four. Five. Six. Seven in three places. Eight. Nine. Ten. Oh! gentlemen, let us get on a little faster. Thank you, sir—fifteen. Sixteen. It is against you, Mr Woodden. Ah! thank you, seventeen.”
There came a pause in the fierce race for “O. Pavo,” which I occupied in reducing seventeen hundred shillings to pounds sterling.
My word! I thought to myself, £85 is a goodish price to pay for one plant, however rare. Woodden is acting up to his instructions with a vengeance.
The pleading voice of Mr. Primrose broke in upon my meditations.
“Gentlemen, gentlemen!” he said, “surely you are not going to allow the most wondrous production of the floral world, on which I repeat there is no reserve, to be knocked down at this miserable figure. Come, come. Well, if I must, I must, though after such a disgrace I shall get no sleep to-night. One,” and his hammer fell for the first time. “Think, gentlemen, upon my position, think what the eminent owners, who with their usual delicacy have stayed away, will say to me when I am obliged to tell them the disgraceful truth. Two,” and his hammer fell a second time. “Smith, hold up that flower. Let the company see it. Let them know what they are losing.”
Smith held up the flower at which everybody glared. The little ivory hammer circled round Mr. Primrose’s head. It was about to fall, when a quiet man with a long beard who hitherto had not joined in the bidding, lifted his head and said softly:
“Eighteen hundred.”
“Ah!” exclaimed Mr. Primrose, “I thought so. I thought that the owner of the greatest collection in England would not see this treasure slip from his grasp without a struggle. Against you, Mr. Woodden.”
“Nineteen, sir,” said Woodden in a stony voice.
“Two thousand,” echoed the gentleman with the long beard.
“Twenty-one hundred,” said Woodden.
“That’s right, Mr. Woodden,” cried Mr. Primrose, “you are indeed representing your principal worthily. I feel sure that you do not mean to stop for a few miserable pounds.”
“Not if I knows it,” ejaculated Woodden. “I has my orders and I acts up to them.”
“Twenty-two hundred,” said Long-beard.
“Twenty-three,” echoed Woodden.
“Oh, damn!” shouted Long-beard and rushed from the room.
“‘Odontoglossum Pavo’ is going for twenty-three hundred, only twenty-tree hundred,” cried the auctioneer. “Any advance on twenty-three hundred? What? None? Then I must do my duty. One. Two. For the last time—no advance? Three. Gone to Mr. Woodden, bidding for his principal, Mr. Somers.”
The hammer fell with a sharp tap, and at this moment my young friend sauntered into the room.
“Well, Woodden,” he said, “have they put the ‘Pavo’ up yet?”
“It’s up and it’s down, sir. I’ve bought him right enough.”
“The deuce you have! What did it fetch?”
Woodden scratched his head.
“I don’t rightly know, sir, never was good at figures, not having much book learning, but it’s twenty-three something.”
“£23? No, it would have brought more than that. By Jingo! it must be £230. That’s pretty stiff, but still, it may be worth it.”
At this moment Mr. Primrose, who, leaning over his desk, was engaged in animated conversation with an excited knot of orchid fanciers, looked up:
“Oh! there you are, Mr. Somers,” he said. “In the name of all this company let me congratulate you on having become the owner of the matchless ‘Odontoglossum Pavo’ for what, under all the circumstances, I consider the quite moderate price of £2,300.”
Really that young man took it very well. He shivered slightly and turned a little pale, that is all. Woodden rocked to and fro like a tree about to fall. I and my tin box collapsed together in the corner. Yes, I was so surprised that my legs seemed to give way under me. People began to talk, but above the hum of the conversation I heard young Somers say in a low voice:
“Woodden, you’re a born fool.” Also the answer: “That’s what my mother always told me, master, and she ought to know if anyone did. But what’s wrong now? I obeyed orders and bought ‘O. Paving.’”
“Yes. Don’t bother, my good fellow, it’s my fault, not yours. I’m the born fool. But heavens above! how am I to face this?” Then, recovering himself, he strolled up to the rostrum and said a few words to the auctioneer. Mr. Primrose nodded, and I heard him answer:
“Oh, that will be all right, sir, don’t bother. We can’t expect an account like this to be settled in a minute. A month hence will do.”
Then he went on with the sale.
It was just at this moment that I saw standing by me a fine-looking, stout man with a square, grey beard and a handsome, but not very good-tempered face. He was looking about him as one does who finds himself in a place to which he is not accustomed.
“Perhaps you could tell me, sir,” he said to me, “whether a gentleman called Mr. Somers is in this room. I am rather short-sighted and there are a great many people.”
“Yes,” I answered, “he has just bought the wonderful orchid called ‘Odontoglossum Pavo.’ That is what they are all talking about.”
“Oh, has he? Has he indeed? And pray what did he pay for the article?”
“A huge sum,” I answered. “I thought it was two thousand three hundred shillings, but it appears it was £2,300.”
The handsome, elderly gentleman grew very red in the face, so red that I thought he was going to have a fit. For a few moments he breathed heavily.
“A rival collector,” I thought to myself, and went on with the story which, it occurred to me, might interest him.
“You see, the young gentleman was called away to an interview with his father. I heard him instruct his gardener, a man named Woodden, to buy the plant at any price.”
“At any price! Indeed. Very interesting; continue, sir.”
“Well, the gardener bought it, that’s all, after tremendous competition. Look, there he is packing it up. Whether his master meant him to go as far as he did I rather doubt. But here he comes. If you know him——”
The youthful Mr. Somers, looking a little pale anddistrait, strolled up apparently to speak to me; his hands were in his pockets and an unlighted cigar was in his mouth. His eyes fell upon the elderly gentleman, a sight that caused him to shape his lips as though to whistle and drop the cigar.
“Hullo, father,” he said in his pleasant voice. “I got your message and have been looking for you, but never thought that I should find you here. Orchids aren’t much in your line, are they?”
“Didn’t you, indeed!” replied his parent in a choked voice. “No, I haven’t much use for—this stinking rubbish,” and he waved his umbrella at the beautiful flowers. “But it seems that you have, Stephen. This little gentlemen here tells me you have just bought a very fine specimen.”
“I must apologize,” I broke in, addressing Mr. Somers. “I had not the slightest idea that this—big gentleman,” here the son smiled faintly, “was your intimate relation.”
“Oh! pray don’t, Mr. Quatermain. Why should you not speak of what will be in all the papers. Yes, father, I have bought a very fine specimen, the finest known, or at least Woodden has on my behalf, while I was hunting for you, which comes to the same thing.”
“Indeed, Stephen, and what did you pay for this flower? I have heard a figure, but think that there must be some mistake.”
“I don’t know what you heard, father, but it seems to have been knocked down to me at £2,300. It’s a lot more than I can find, indeed, and I was going to ask you to lend me the money for the sake of the family credit, if not for my own. But we can talk about that afterwards.”
“Yes, Stephen, we can talk of that afterwards. In fact, as there is no time like the present, we will talk of it now. Come to my office. And, sir” (this was to me) “as you seem to know something of the circumstances, I will ask you to come also; and you too, Blockhead” (this was to Woodden, who just then approached with the plant).
Now, of course, I might have refused an invitation conveyed in such a manner. But, as a matter of fact, I didn’t. I wanted to see the thing out; also to put in a word for young Somers, if I got the chance. So we all departed from that room, followed by a titter of amusement from those of the company who had overheard the conversation. In the street stood a splendid carriage and pair; a powdered footman opened its door. With a ferocious bow Sir Alexander motioned to me to enter, which I did, taking one of the back seats as it gave more room for my tin case. Then came Mr. Stephen, then Woodden bundled in holding the precious plant in front of him like a wand of office, and last of all, Sir Alexander, having seen us safe, entered also.
“Where to, sir?” asked the footman.
“Office,” he snapped, and we started.
Four disappointed relatives in a funeral coach could not have been more silent. Our feelings seemed to be too deep for words. Sir Alexander, however, did make one remark and to me. It was:
“If you will remove the corner of that infernal tin box of yours from my ribs I shall be obliged to you, sir.”
“Your pardon,” I exclaimed, and in my efforts to be accommodating, dropped it on his toe. I will not repeat the remark he made, but I may explain that he was gouty. His son suddenly became afflicted with a sense of the absurdity of the situation. He kicked me on the shin, he even dared to wink, and then began to swell visibly with suppressed laughter. I was in agony, for if he had exploded I do not know what would have happened. Fortunately, at this moment the carriage stopped at the door of a fine office. Without waiting for the footman Mr. Stephen bundled out and vanished into the building—I suppose to laugh in safety. Then I descended with the tin case; then, by command, followed Woodden with the flower, and lastly came Sir Alexander.
“Stop here,” he said to the coachman; “I shan’t be long. Be so good as to follow me, Mr. What’s-your-name, and you, too, Gardener.”
We followed, and found ourselves in a big room luxuriously furnished in a heavy kind of way. Sir Alexander Somers, I should explain, was an enormously opulent bullion-broker, whatever a bullion-broker may be. In this room Mr. Stephen was already established; indeed, he was seated on the window-sill swinging his leg.
“Now we are alone and comfortable,” growled Sir Alexander with sarcastic ferocity.
“As the boa-constrictor said to the rabbit in the cage,” I remarked.
I did not mean to say it, but I had grown nervous, and the thought leapt from my lips in words. Again Mr. Stephen began to swell. He turned his face to the window as though to contemplate the wall beyond, but I could see his shoulders shaking. A dim light of intelligence shone in Woodden’s pale eyes. About three minutes later the joke got home. He gurgled something about boa-constrictors and rabbits and gave a short, loud laugh. As for Sir Alexander, he merely said:
“I did not catch your remark, sir, would you be so good as to repeat it?”
As I appeared unwilling to accept the invitation, he went on:
“Perhaps, then, you would repeat what you told me in that sale-room?”
“Why should I?” I asked. “I spoke quite clearly and you seemed to understand.”
“You are right,” replied Sir Alexander; “to waste time is useless.” He wheeled round on Woodden, who was standing near the door still holding the paper-wrapped plant in front of him. “Now, Blockhead,” he shouted, “tell me why you brought that thing.”
Woodden made no answer, only rocked a little. Sir Alexander reiterated his command. This time Woodden set the plant upon a table and replied:
“If you’re aspeaking to me, sir, that baint my name, and what’s more, if you calls me so again, I’ll punch your head, whoever you be,” and very deliberately he rolled up the sleeves on his brawny arms, a sight at which I too began to swell with inward merriment.
“Look here, father,” said Mr. Stephen, stepping forward. “What’s the use of all this? The thing’s perfectly plain. I did tell Woodden to buy the plant at any price. What is more I gave him a written authority which was passed up to the auctioneer. There’s no getting out of it. It is true it never occurred to me that it would go for anything like £2,300—the odd £300 was more my idea, but Woodden only obeyed his orders, and ought not to be abused for doing so.”
“There’s what I call a master worth serving,” remarked Woodden.
“Very well, young man,” said Sir Alexander, “you have purchased this article. Will you be so good as to tell me how you propose it should be paid for.”
“I propose, father, that you should pay for it,” replied Mr. Stephen sweetly. “Two thousand three hundred pounds, or ten times that amount, would not make you appreciably poorer. But if, as is probable, you take a different view, then I propose to pay for it myself. As you know a certain sum of money came to me under my mother’s will in which you have only a life interest. I shall raise the amount upon that security—or otherwise.”
If Sir Alexander had been angry before, now he became like a mad bull in a china shop. He pranced round the room; he used language that should not pass the lips of any respectable merchant of bullion; in short, he did everything that a person in his position ought not to do. When he was tired he rushed to a desk, tore a cheque from a book and filled it in for a sum of £2,300 to bearer, which cheque he blotted, crumpled up and literally threw at the head of his son.
“You worthless, idle young scoundrel,” he bellowed. “I put you in this office here that you may learn respectable and orderly habits and in due course succeed to a very comfortable business. What happens? You don’t take a ha’porth of interest in bullion-broking, a subject of which I believe you to remain profoundly ignorant. You don’t even spend your money, or rather my money, upon any gentleman-like vice, such as horse-racing, or cards, or even—well, never mind. No, you take to flowers, miserable, beastly flowers, things that a cow eats and clerks grow in back gardens.”
“An ancient and Arcadian taste. Adam is supposed to have lived in a garden,” I ventured to interpolate.
“Perhaps you would ask your friend with the stubbly hair to remain quiet,” snorted Sir Alexander. “I was about to add, although for the sake of my name I meet your debts, that I have had enough of this kind of thing. I disinherit you, or will do if I live till 4 p.m. when the lawyer’s office shuts, for thank God! there are no entailed estates, and I dismiss you from the firm. You can go and earn your living in any way you please, by orchid-hunting if you like.” He paused, gasping for breath.
“Is that all, father?” asked Mr. Stephen, producing a cigar from his pocket.
“No, it isn’t, you cold-blooded young beggar. That house you occupy at Twickenham is mine. You will be good enough to clear out of it; I wish to take possession.”
“I suppose, father, I am entitled to a week’s notice like any other tenant,” said Mr. Stephen, lighting the cigar. “In fact,” he added, “if you answer no, I think I shall ask you to apply for an ejection order. You will understand that I have arrangements to make before taking a fresh start in life.”
“Oh! curse your cheek, you—you—cucumber!” raged the infuriated merchant prince. Then an inspiration came to him. “You think more of an ugly flower than of your father, do you? Well, at least I’ll put an end to that,” and he made a dash at the plant on the table with the evident intention of destroying the same.
But the watching Woodden saw. With a kind of lurch he interposed his big frame between Sir Alexander and the object of his wrath.
“Touch ‘O. Paving’ and I knocks yer down,” he drawled out.
Sir Alexander looked at “O. Paving,” then he looked at Woodden’s leg-of-mutton fist, and—changed his mind.
“Curse ‘O. Paving,’” he said, “and everyone who has to do with it,” and swung out of the room, banging the door behind him.
“Well, that’s over,” said Mr. Stephen gently, as he fanned himself with a pocket-handkerchief. “Quite exciting while it lasted, wasn’t it, Mr. Quatermain—but I have been there before, so to speak. And now what do you say to some luncheon? Pym’s is close by, and they have very good oysters. Only I think we’ll drive round by the bank and hand in this cheque. When he’s angry my parent is capable of anything. He might even stop it. Woodden, get off down to Twickenham with ‘O. Pavo.’ Keep it warm, for it feels rather like frost. Put it in the stove for to-night and give it a little, just a little tepid water, but be careful not to touch the flower. Take a four-wheeled cab, it’s slow but safe, and mind you keep the windows up and don’t smoke. I shall be home for dinner.”
Woodden pulled his forelock, seized the pot in his left hand, and departed with his right fist raised—I suppose in case Sir Alexander should be waiting for him round the corner.
Then we departed also and, after stopping for a minute at the bank to pay in the cheque, which I noted, notwithstanding its amount, was accepted without comment, ate oysters in a place too crowded to allow of conversation.
“Mr. Quatermain,” said my host, “it is obvious that we cannot talk here, and much less look at that orchid of yours, which I want to study at leisure. Now, for a week or so at any rate I have a roof over my head, and in short, will you be my guest for a night or two? I know nothing about you, and of me you only know that I am the disinherited son of a father, to whom I have failed to give satisfaction. Still it is possible that we might pass a few pleasant hours together talking of flowers and other things; that is, if you have no previous engagement.”
“I have none,” I answered. “I am only a stranger from South Africa lodging at an hotel. If you will give me time to call for my bag, I will pass the night at your house with pleasure.”
By the aid of Mr. Somers’ smart dog-cart, which was waiting at a city mews, we reached Twickenham while there was still half an hour of daylight. The house, which was called Verbena Lodge, was small, a square, red-brick building of the early Georgian period, but the gardens covered quite an acre of ground and were very beautiful, or must have been so in summer. Into the greenhouse we did not enter, because it was too late to see the flowers. Also, just when we came to them, Woodden arrived in his four-wheeled cab and departed with his master to see to the housing of “O. Pavo.”
Then came dinner, a very pleasant meal. My host had that day been turned out upon the world, but he did not allow this circumstance to interfere with his spirits in the least. Also he was evidently determined to enjoy its good things while they lasted, for his champagne and port were excellent.
“You see, Mr. Quatermain,” he said, “it’s just as well we had the row which has been boiling up for a long while. My respected father has made so much money that he thinks I should go and do likewise. Now, I don’t see it. I like flowers, especially orchids, and I hate bullion-broking. To me the only decent places in London are that sale-room where we met and the Horticultural Gardens.”
“Yes,” I answered rather doubtfully, “but the matter seems a little serious. Your parent was very emphatic as to his intentions, and after this kind of thing,” and I pointed to the beautiful silver and the port, “how will you like roughing it in a hard world?”
“Don’t think I shall mind a bit; it would be rather a pleasant change. Also, even if my father doesn’t alter his mind, as he may, for he likes me at bottom because I resemble my dear mother, things ain’t so very bad. I have got some money that she left me, £6,000 or £7,000, and I’ll sell that ‘Odontoglossum Pavo’ for what it will fetch to Sir Joshua Tredgold—he was the man with the long beard who you tell me ran up Woodden to over £2,000—or failing him to someone else. I’ll write about it to-night. I don’t think I have any debts to speak of, for the Governor has been allowing me £3,000 a year, at least that is my share of the profits paid to me in return for my bullion-broking labours, and except flowers, I have no expensive tastes. So the devil take the past, here’s to the future and whatever it may bring,” and he polished off the glass of port he held and laughed in his jolly fashion.
Really he was a most attractive young man, a little reckless, it is true, but then recklessness and youth mix well, like brandy and soda.
I echoed the toast and drank off my port, for I like a good glass of wine when I can get it, as would anyone who has had to live for months on rotten water, although I admit that agrees with me better than the port.
“Now, Mr. Quatermain,” he went on, “if you have done, light your pipe and let’s go into the other room and study that Cypripedium of yours. I shan’t sleep to-night unless I see it again first. Stop a bit, though, we’ll get hold of that old ass, Woodden, before he turns in.”
“Woodden,” said his master, when the gardener had arrived, “this gentleman, Mr. Quatermain, is going to show you an orchid that is ten times finer than ‘O. Pavo!’”
“Beg pardon, sir,” answered Woodden, “but if Mr. Quatermain says that, he lies. It ain’t in Nature; it don’t bloom nowhere.”
I opened the case and revealed the golden Cypripedium. Woodden stared at it and rocked. Then he stared again and felt his head as though to make sure it was on his shoulders. Then he gasped.
“Well, if that there flower baint made up, it’s a MASTER ONE! If I could see that there flower ablowing on the plant I’d die happy.”
“Woodden, stop talking, and sit down,” exclaimed his master. “Yes, there, where you can look at the flower. Now, Mr. Quatermain, will you tell us the story of that orchid from beginning to end. Of course omitting its habitat if you like, for it isn’t fair to ask that secret. Woodden can be trusted to hold his tongue, and so can I.”
I remarked that I was sure they could, and for the next half-hour talked almost without interruption, keeping nothing back and explaining that I was anxious to find someone who would finance an expedition to search for this particular plant; as I believed, the only one of its sort that existed in the world.
“How much will it cost?” asked Mr. Somers.
“I lay it at £2,000,” I answered. “You see, we must have plenty of men and guns and stores, also trade goods and presents.”
“I call that cheap. But supposing, Mr. Quatermain, that the expedition proves successful and the plant is secured, what then?”
“Then I propose that Brother John, who found it and of whom I have told you, should take one-third of whatever it might sell for, that I as captain of the expedition should take one-third, and that whoever finds the necessary money should take the remaining third.”
“Good! That’s settled.”
“What’s settled?” I asked.
“Why, that we should divide in the proportions you named, only I bargain to be allowed to take my whack in kind—I mean in plant, and to have the first option of purchasing the rest of the plant at whatever value may be agreed upon.”
“But, Mr. Somers, do you mean that you wish to find £2,000 and make this expedition in person?”
“Of course I do. I thought you understood that. That is, if you will have me. Your old friend, the lunatic, you and I will together seek for and find this golden flower. I say that’s settled.”
On the morrow accordingly, it was settled with the help of a document, signed in duplicate by both of us.
Before these arrangements were finally concluded, however, I insisted that Mr. Somers should meet my late companion, Charlie Scroope, when I was not present, in order that the latter might give him a full and particular report concerning myself. Apparently the interview was satisfactory, at least so I judged from the very cordial and even respectful manner in which young Somers met me after it was over. Also I thought it my duty to explain to him with much clearness in the presence of Scroope as a witness, the great dangers of such an enterprise as that on which he proposed to embark. I told him straight out that he must be prepared to find his death in it from starvation, fever, wild beasts or at the hands of savages, while success was quite problematical and very likely would not be attained.
“Youare taking these risks,” he said.
“Yes,” I answered, “but they are incident to the rough trade I follow, which is that of a hunter and explorer. Moreover, my youth is past, and I have gone through experiences and bereavements of which you know nothing, that cause me to set a very slight value on life. I care little whether I die or continue in the world for some few added years. Lastly, the excitement of adventure has become a kind of necessity for me. I do not think that I could live in England for very long. Also I’m a fatalist. I believe that when my time comes I must go, that this hour is foreordained and that nothing I can do will either hasten or postpone it by one moment. Your circumstances are different. You are quite young. If you stay here and approach your father in a proper spirit, I have no doubt but that he will forget all the rough words he said to you the other day, for which indeed you know you gave him some provocation. Is it worth while throwing up such prospects and undertaking such dangers for the chance of finding a rare flower? I say this to my own disadvantage, since I might find it hard to discover anyone else who would risk £2,000 upon such a venture, but I do urge you to weigh my words.”
Young Somers looked at me for a little while, then he broke into one of his hearty laughs and exclaimed, “Whatever else you may be, Mr. Allan Quatermain, you are a gentleman. No bullion-broker in the City could have put the matter more fairly in the teeth of his own interests.”
“Thank you,” I said.
“For the rest,” he went on, “I too am tired of England and want to see the world. It isn’t the golden Cypripedium that I seek, although I should like to win it well enough. That’s only a symbol. What I seek are adventure and romance. Also, like you I am a fatalist. God chose His own time to send us here, and I presume that He will choose His own time to take us away again. So I leave the matter of risks to Him.”
“Yes, Mr. Somers,” I replied rather solemnly. “You may find adventure and romance, there are plenty of both in Africa. Or you may find a nameless grave in some fever-haunted swamp. Well, you have chosen, and I like your spirit.”
Still I was so little satisfied about this business, that a week or so before we sailed, after much consideration, I took it upon myself to write a letter to Sir Alexander Somers, in which I set forth the whole matter as clearly as I could, not blinking the dangerous nature of our undertaking. In conclusion, I asked him whether he thought it wise to allow his only son to accompany such an expedition, mainly because of a not very serious quarrel with himself.
As no answer came to this letter I went on with our preparations. There was money in plenty, since the re-sale of “O. Pavo” to Sir Joshua Tredgold, at some loss, had been satisfactorily carried out, which enabled me to invest in all things needful with a cheerful heart. Never before had I been provided with such an outfit as that which preceded us to the ship.
At length the day of departure came. We stood on the platform at Paddington waiting for the Dartmouth train to start, for in those days the African mail sailed from that port. A minute or two before the train left, as we were preparing to enter our carriage I caught sight of a face that I seemed to recognise, the owner of which was evidently searching for someone in the crowd. It was that of Briggs, Sir Alexander’s clerk, whom I had met in the sale-room.
“Mr. Briggs,” I said as he passed me, “are you looking for Mr. Somers? If so, he is in here.”
The clerk jumped into the compartment and handed a letter to Mr. Somers. Then he emerged again and waited. Somers read the letter and tore off a blank sheet from the end of it, on which he hastily wrote some words. He passed it to me to give to Briggs, and I could not help seeing what was written. It was: “Too late now. God bless you, my dear father. I hope we may meet again. If not, try to think kindly of your troublesome and foolish son, Stephen.”
In another minute the train had started.
“By the way,” he said, as we steamed out of the station, “I have heard from my father, who enclosed this for you.”
I opened the envelope, which was addressed in a bold, round hand that seemed to me typical of the writer, and read as follows:
“My Dear Sir,—I appreciate the motives which caused you to writeto me and I thank you very heartily for your letter, which showsme that you are a man of discretion and strict honour. As yousurmise, the expedition on which my son has entered is not onethat commends itself to me as prudent. Of the differences betweenhim and myself you are aware, for they came to a climax in yourpresence. Indeed, I feel that I owe you an apology for havingdragged you into an unpleasant family quarrel. Your letter onlyreached me to-day having been forwarded to my place in the countryfrom my office. I should have at once come to town, butunfortunately I am laid up with an attack of gout which makes itimpossible for me to stir. Therefore, the only thing I can do isto write to my son hoping that the letter which I send by aspecial messenger will reach him in time and avail to alter hisdetermination to undertake this journey. Here I may add thatalthough I have differed and do differ from him on various points,I still have a deep affection for my son and earnestly desire hiswelfare. The prospect of any harm coming to him is one upon whichI cannot bear to dwell.“Now I am aware that any change of his plans at this eleventh hourwould involve you in serious loss and inconvenience. I beg toinform you formally, therefore, that in this event I will makegood everything and will in addition write off the £2,000 which Iunderstand he has invested in your joint venture. It may be,however, that my son, who has in him a vein of my own obstinacy,will refuse to change his mind. In that event, under a HigherPower I can only commend him to your care and beg that you willlook after him as though he were your own child. I can ask and youcan do no more. Tell him to write me as opportunity offers, asperhaps you will too; also that, although I hate the sight ofthem, I will look after the flowers which he has left at the houseat Twickenham.—“Your obliged servant, ALEXANDER SOMERS.”
This letter touched me much, and indeed made me feel very uncomfortable. Without a word I handed it to my companion, who read it through carefully.
“Nice of him about the orchids,” he said. “My dad has a good heart, although he lets his temper get the better of him, having had his own way all his life.”
“Well, what will you do?” I asked.
“Go on, of course. I’ve put my hand to the plough and I am not going to turn back. I should be a cur if I did, and what’s more, whatever he might say he’d think none the better of me. So please don’t try to persuade me, it would be no good.”
For quite a while afterwards young Somers seemed to be comparatively depressed, a state of mind that in his case was rare indeed. At last, he studied the wintry landscape through the carriage window and said nothing. By degrees, however, he recovered, and when we reached Dartmouth was as cheerful as ever, a mood that I could not altogether share.
Before we sailed I wrote to Sir Alexander telling him exactly how things stood, and so I think did his son, though he never showed me the letter.
At Durban, just as we were about to start up country, I received an answer from him, sent by some boat that followed us very closely. In it he said that he quite understood the position, and whatever happened would attribute no blame to me, whom he should always regard with friendly feelings. He told me that, in the event of any difficulty or want of money, I was to draw on him for whatever might be required, and that he had advised the African Bank to that effect. Further, he added, that at least his son had shown grit in this matter, for which he respected him.
And now for a long while I must bid good-bye to Sir Alexander Somers and all that has to do with England.
We arrived safely at Durban at the beginning of March and took up our quarters at my house on the Berea, where I expected that Brother John would be awaiting us. But no Brother John was to be found. The old, lame Griqua, Jack, who looked after the place for me and once had been one of my hunters, said that shortly after I went away in the ship, Dogeetah, as he called him, had taken his tin box and his net and walked off inland, he knew not where, leaving, as he declared, no message or letter behind him. The cases full of butterflies and dried plants were also gone, but these, I found he had shipped to some port in America, by a sailing vessel bound for the United States which chanced to put in at Durban for food and water. As to what had become of the man himself I could get no clue. He had been seen at Maritzburg and, according to some Kaffirs whom I knew, afterwards on the borders of Zululand, where, so far as I could learn, he vanished into space.
This, to say the least of it, was disconcerting, and a question arose as to what was to be done. Brother John was to have been our guide. He alone knew the Mazitu people; he alone had visited the borders of the mysterious Pongo-land, I scarcely felt inclined to attempt to reach that country without his aid.
When a fortnight had gone by and still there were no signs of him, Stephen and I held a solemn conference. I pointed out the difficulties and dangers of the situation to him and suggested that, under the circumstances, it might be wise to give up this wild orchid-chase and go elephant-hunting instead in a certain part of Zululand, where in those days these animals were still abundant.
He was inclined to agree with me, since the prospect of killing elephants had attractions for him.
“And yet,” I said, after reflection, “it’s curious, but I never remember making a successful trip after altering plans at the last moment, that is, unless one was driven to it.”
“I vote we toss up,” said Somers; “it gives Providence a chance. Now then, heads for the Golden Cyp, and tails for the elephants.”
He spun a half-crown into the air. It fell and rolled under a great, yellow-wood chest full of curiosities that I had collected, which it took all our united strength to move. We dragged it aside and not without some excitement, for really a good deal hung upon the chance, I lit a match and peered into the shadow. There in the dust lay the coin.
“What is it?” I asked of Somers, who was stretched on his stomach on the chest.
“Orchid—I mean head,” he answered. “Well, that’s settled, so we needn’t bother any more.”
The next fortnight was a busy time for me. As it happened there was a schooner in the bay of about one hundred tons burden which belonged to a Portuguese trader named Delgado, who dealt in goods that he carried to the various East African ports and Madagascar. He was a villainous-looking person whom I suspected of having dealings with the slave traders, who were very numerous and a great power in those days, if indeed he were not one himself. But as he was going to Kilwa whence we proposed to start inland, I arranged to make use of him to carry our party and the baggage. The bargain was not altogether easy to strike for two reasons. First, he did not appear to be anxious that we should hunt in the districts at the back of Kilwa, where he assured me there was no game, and secondly, he said that he wanted to sail at once. However, I overcame his objections with an argument he could not resist—namely, money, and in the end he agreed to postpone his departure for fourteen days.
Then I set about collecting our men, of whom I had made up my mind there must not be less than twenty. Already I had sent messengers summoning to Durban from Zululand and the upper districts of Natal various hunters who had accompanied me on other expeditions. To the number of a dozen or so they arrived in due course. I have always had the good fortune to be on the best of terms with my Kaffirs, and where I went they were ready to go without asking any questions. The man whom I had selected to be their captain under me was a Zulu of the name of Mavovo. He was a short fellow, past middle age, with an enormous chest. His strength was proverbial; indeed, it was said that he could throw an ox by the horns, and myself I have seen him hold down the head of a wounded buffalo that had fallen, until I could come up and shoot it.
When I first knew Mavovo he was a petty chief and witch doctor in Zululand. Like myself, he had fought for the Prince Umbelazi in the great battle of the Tugela, a crime which Cetewayo never forgave him. About a year afterwards he got warning that he had been smelt out as a wizard and was going to be killed. He fled with two of his wives and a child. The slayers overtook them before he could reach the Natal border, and stabbed the elder wife and the child of the second wife. They were four men, but, made mad by the sight, Mavovo turned on them and killed them all. Then, with the remaining wife, cut to pieces as he was, he crept to the river and through it to Natal. Not long after this wife died also; it was said from grief at the loss of her child. Mavovo did not marry again, perhaps because he was now a man without means, for Cetewayo had taken all his cattle; also he was made ugly by an assegai wound which had cut off his right nostril. Shortly after the death of his second wife he sought me out and told me he was a chief without a kraal and wished to become my hunter. So I took him on, a step which I never had any cause to regret, since although morose and at times given to the practice of uncanny arts, he was a most faithful servant and brave as a lion, or rather as a buffalo, for a lion is not always brave.
Another man whom I did not send for, but who came, was an old Hottentot named Hans, with whom I had been more or less mixed up all my life. When I was a boy he was my father’s servant in the Cape Colony and my companion in some of those early wars. Also he shared some very terrible adventures with me which I have detailed in the history I have written of my first wife, Marie Marais. For instance, he and I were the only persons who escaped from the massacre of Retief and his companions by the Zulu king, Dingaan. In the subsequent campaigns, including the Battle of the Blood River, he fought at my side and ultimately received a good share of captured cattle. After this he retired and set up a native store at a place called Pinetown, about fifteen miles out of Durban. Here I am afraid he got into bad ways and took to drink more or less; also to gambling. At any rate, he lost most of his property, so much of it indeed that he scarcely knew which way to turn. Thus it happened that one evening when I went out of the house where I had been making up my accounts, I saw a yellow-faced white-haired old fellow squatted on the verandah smoking a pipe made out of a corn-cob.
“Good day, Baas,” he said, “here am I, Hans.”
“So I see,” I answered, rather coldly. “And what are you doing here, Hans? How can you spare time from your drinking and gambling at Pinetown to visit me here, Hans, after I have not seen you for three years?”
“Baas, the gambling is finished, because I have nothing more to stake, and the drinking is done too, because but one bottle of Cape Smoke makes me feel quite ill next morning. So now I only take water and as little of that as I can, water and some tobacco to cover up its taste.”
“I am glad to hear it, Hans. If my father, the Predikant who baptised you, were alive now, he would have much to say about your conduct as indeed I have no doubt he will presently when you have gone into a hole (i.e., a grave). For there in the hole he will be waiting for you, Hans.”
“I know, I know, Baas. I have been thinking of that and it troubles me. Your reverend father, the Predikant, will be very cross indeed with me when I join him in the Place of Fires where he sits awaiting me. So I wish to make my peace with him by dying well, and in your service, Baas. I hear that the Baas is going on an expedition. I have come to accompany the Baas.”
“To accompany me! Why, you are old, you are not worth five shillings a month and yourscoff(food). You are a shrunken old brandy cask that will not even hold water.”
Hans grinned right across his ugly face.
“Oh! Baas, I am old, but I am clever. All these years I have been gathering wisdom. I am as full of it as a bee’s nest is with honey when the summer is done. And, Baas, I can stop those leaks in the cask.”
“Hans, it is no good, I don’t want you. I am going into great danger. I must have those about me whom I can trust.”
“Well, Baas, and who can be better trusted than Hans? Who warned you of the attack of the Quabies on Maraisfontein, and so saved the life of——”
“Hush!” I said.
“I understand. I will not speak the name. It is holy, not to be mentioned. It is the name of one who stands with the white angels before God; not to be mentioned by poor drunken Hans. Still, who stood at your side in that great fight? Ah! it makes me young again to think of it, when the roof burned; when the door was broken down; when we met the Quabies on the spears; when you held the pistol to the head of the Holy One whose name must not be mentioned, the Great One who knew how to die. Oh! Baas, our lives are twisted up together like the creeper and the tree, and where you go, there I must go also. Do not turn me away. I ask no wages, only a bit of food and a handful of tobacco, and the light of your face and a word now and again of the memories that belong to both of us. I am still very strong. I can shoot well—well, Baas, who was it that put it into your mind to aim at the tails of the vultures on the Hill of Slaughter yonder in Zululand, and so saved the lives of all the Boer people, and of her whose holy name must not be mentioned? Baas, you will not turn me away?”
“No,” I answered, “you can come. But you will swear by the spirit of my father, the Predikant, to touch no liquor on this journey.”
“I swear by his spirit and by that of the Holy One,” and he flung himself forward on to his knees, took my hand and kissed it. Then he rose and said in a matter-of-fact tone, “If the Baas can give me two blankets, I shall thank him, also five shillings to buy some tobacco and a new knife. Where are the Baas’s guns? I must go to oil them. I beg that the Baas will take with him that little rifle which is namedIntombi(Maiden), the one with which he shot the vultures on the Hill of Slaughter, the one that killed the geese in the Goose Kloof when I loaded for him and he won the great match against the Boer whom Dingaan called Two-faces.”
“Good,” I said. “Here are the five shillings. You shall have the blankets and a new gun and all things needful. You will find the guns in the little back room and with them those of the Baas, my companion, who also is your master. Go see to them.”
At length all was ready, the cases of guns, ammunition, medicines, presents and food were on board theMaria. So were four donkeys that I had bought in the hope that they would prove useful, either to ride or as pack beasts. The donkey, be it remembered, and man are the only animals which are said to be immune from the poisonous effects of the bite of tsetse fly, except, of course, the wild game. It was our last night at Durban, a very beautiful night of full moon at the end of March, for the Portugee Delgado had announced his intention of sailing on the following afternoon. Stephen Somers and I were seated on the stoep smoking and talking things over.
“It is a strange thing,” I said, “that Brother John should never have turned up. I know that he was set upon making this expedition, not only for the sake of the orchid, but also for some other reason of which he would not speak. I think that the old fellow must be dead.”
“Very likely,” answered Stephen (we had become intimate and I called him Stephen now), “a man alone among savages might easily come to grief and never be heard of again. Hark! What’s that?” and he pointed to some gardenia bushes in the shadow of the house near by, whence came a sound of something that moved.
“A dog, I expect, or perhaps it is Hans. He curls up in all sorts of places near to where I may be. Hans, are you there?”
A figure arose from the gardenia bushes.
“Ja, I am here, Baas.”
“What are you doing, Hans?”
“I am doing what the dog does, Baas—watching my master.”
“Good,” I answered. Then an idea struck me. “Hans, you have heard of the white Baas with the long beard whom the Kaffirs call Dogeetah?”
“I have heard of him and once I saw him, a few moons ago passing through Pinetown. A Kaffir with him told me that he was going over the Drakensberg to hunt for things that crawl and fly, being quite mad, Baas.”
“Well, where is he now, Hans? He should have been here to travel with us.”
“Am I a spirit that I can tell the Baas whither a white man has wandered? Yet, stay. Mavovo may be able to tell. He is a great doctor, he can see through distance, and even now, this very night his Snake of divination has entered into him and he is looking into the future, yonder, behind the house. I saw him form the circle.”
I translated what Hans said to Stephen, for he had been talking in Dutch, then asked him if he would like to see some Kaffir magic.
“Of course,” he answered, “but it’s all bosh, isn’t it?”
“Oh, yes, all bosh, or so most people say,” I answered evasively. “Still, sometimes theseInyangastell one strange things.”
Then, led by Hans, we crept round the house to where there was a five-foot stone wall at the back of the stable. Beyond this wall, within the circle of some huts where my Kaffirs lived, was an open space with an ant-heap floor where they did their cooking. Here, facing us, sat Mavovo, while in a ring around him were all the hunters who were to accompany us; also Jack, the lame Griqua, and the two house-boys. In front of Mavovo burned a number of little wood fires. I counted them and found that there were fourteen, which, I reflected, was the exact number of our hunters, plus ourselves. One of the hunters was engaged in feeding these fires with little bits of stick and handfuls of dried grass so as to keep them burning brightly. The others sat round perfectly silent and watched with rapt attention. Mavovo himself looked like a man who is asleep. He was crouched on his haunches with his big head resting almost upon his knees. About his middle was a snake-skin, and round his neck an ornament that appeared to be made of human teeth. On his right side lay a pile of feathers from the wings of vultures, and on his left a little heap of silver money—I suppose the fees paid by the hunters for whom he was divining.
After we had watched him for some while from our shelter behind the wall he appeared to wake out of his sleep. First he muttered; then he looked up to the moon and seemed to say a prayer of which I could not catch the words. Next he shuddered three times convulsively and exclaimed in a clear voice:
“My Snake has come. It is within me. Now I can hear, now I can see.”
Three of the little fires, those immediately in front of him, were larger than the others. He took up his bundle of vultures’ feathers, selected one with care, held it towards the sky, then passed it through the flame of the centre one of the three fires, uttering as he did so, my native name, Macumazana. Withdrawing it from the flame he examined the charred edges of the feather very carefully, a proceeding that caused a cold shiver to go down my back, for I knew well that he was inquiring of his “Spirit” what would be my fate upon this expedition. How it answered, I cannot tell, for he laid the feather down and took another, with which he went through the same process. This time, however, the name he called out was Mwamwazela, which in its shortened form of Wazela, was the Kaffir appellation that the natives had given to Stephen Somers. It means a Smile, and no doubt was selected for him because of his pleasant, smiling countenance.
Having passed it through the right-hand fire of the three, he examined it and laid it down.
So it went on. One after another he called out the names of the hunters, beginning with his own as captain; passed the feather which represented each of them through the particular fire of his destiny, examined and laid it down. After this he seemed to go to sleep again for a few minutes, then woke up as a man does from a natural slumber, yawned and stretched himself.
“Speak,” said his audience, with great anxiety. “Have you seen? Have you heard? What does your Snake tell you of me? Of me? Of me? Of me?”
“I have seen, I have heard,” he answered. “My Snake tells me that this will be a very dangerous journey. Of those who go on it six will die by the bullet, by the spear or by sickness, and others will be hurt.”
“Ow?” said one of them, “but which will die and which will come out safe? Does not your Snake tell you that, O Doctor?”
“Yes, of course my Snake tells me that. But my Snake tells me also to hold my tongue on the matter, lest some of us should be turned to cowards. It tells me further that the first who should ask me more, will be one of those who must die. Now do you ask? Or you? Or you? Or you? Ask if you will.”
Strange to say no one accepted the invitation. Never have I seen a body of men so indifferent to the future, at least to every appearance. One and all they seemed to come to the conclusion that so far as they were concerned it might be left to look after itself.
“My Snake told me something else,” went on Mavovo. “It is that if among this company there is any jackal of a man who, thinking that he might be one of the six to die, dreams to avoid his fate by deserting, it will be of no use. For then my Snake will point him out and show me how to deal with him.”
Now with one voice each man present there declared that desertion from the lord Macumazana was the last thing that could possibly occur to him. Indeed, I believe that those brave fellows spoke truth. No doubt they put faith in Mavovo’s magic after the fashion of their race. Still the death he promised was some way off, and each hoped he would be one of the six to escape. Moreover, the Zulu of those days was too accustomed to death to fear its terrors over much.
One of them did, however, venture to advance the argument, which Mavovo treated with proper contempt, that the shillings paid for this divination should be returned by him to the next heirs of such of them as happened to decease. Why, he asked, should these pay a shilling in order to be told that they must die? It seemed unreasonable.
Certainly the Zulu Kaffirs have a queer way of looking at things.
“Hans,” I whispered, “is your fire among those that burn yonder?”
“Not so, Baas,” he wheezed back into my ear. “Does the Baas think me a fool? If I must die, I must die; if I am to live, I shall live. Why then should I pay a shilling to learn what time will declare? Moreover, yonder Mavovo takes the shillings and frightens everybody, but tells nobody anything.Icall it cheating. But, Baas, do you and the Baas Wazela have no fear. You did not pay shillings, and therefore Mavovo, though without doubt he is a greatInyanga, cannot really prophesy concerning you, since his Snake will not work without a fee.”
The argument seems remarkably absurd. Yet it must be common, for now that I come to think of it, no gipsy will tell a “true fortune” unless her hand is crossed with silver.
“I say, Quatermain,” said Stephen idly, “since our friend Mavovo seems to know so much, ask him what has become of Brother John, as Hans suggested. Tell me what he says afterwards, for I want to see something.”
So I went through the little gate in the wall in a natural kind of way, as though I had seen nothing, and appeared to be struck by the sight of the little fires.
“Well, Mavovo,” I said, “are you doing doctor’s work? I thought that it had brought you into enough trouble in Zululand.”
“That is so,Baba,” replied Mavovo, who had a habit of calling me “father,” though he was older than I. “It cost me my chieftainship and my cattle and my two wives and my son. It made of me a wanderer who is glad to accompany a certain Macumazana to strange lands where many things may befall me, yes,” he added with meaning, “even the last of all things. And yet a gift is a gift and must be used. You,Baba, have a gift of shooting and do you cease to shoot? You have a gift of wandering and can you cease to wander?”
He picked up one of the burnt feathers from the little pile by his side and looked at it attentively. “Perhaps,Baba, you have been told—my ears are very sharp, and I thought I heard some such words floating through the air just now—that we poor KaffirInyangascan prophesy nothing true unless we are paid, and perhaps that is a fact so far as something of the moment is concerned. And yet the Snake in theInyanga, jumping over the little rock which hides the present from it, may see the path that winds far and far away through the valleys, across the streams, up the mountains, till it is lost in the ‘heaven above.’ Thus on this feather, burnt in my magic fire, I seem to see something of your future, O my father Macumazana. Far and far your road runs,” and he drew his finger along the feather. “Here is a journey,” and he flicked away a carbonised flake, “here is another, and another, and another,” and he flicked off flake after flake. “Here is one that is very successful, it leaves you rich; and here is yet one more, a wonderful journey this in which you see strange things and meet strange people. Then”—and he blew on the feather in such a fashion that all the charred filaments (Brother John says thatlaminaeis the right word for them) fell away from it—“then, there is nothing left save such a pole as some of my people stick upright on a grave, the Shaft of Memory they call it. O, my father, you will die in a distant land, but you will leave a great memory behind you that will live for hundreds of years, for see how strong is this quill over which the fire has had no power. With some of these others it is quite different,” he added.
“I daresay,” I broke in, “but, Mavovo, be so good as to leave me out of your magic, for I don’t at all want to know what is going to happen to me. To-day is enough for me without studying next month and next year. There is a saying in our holy book which runs: ‘Sufficient to the day is its evil.’”
“Quite so, O Macumazana. Also that is a very good saying as some of those hunters of yours are thinking now. Yet an hour ago they were forcing their shillings on me that I might tell them of the future. Andyou, too, want to know something. You did not come through that gate to quote to me the wisdom of your holy book. What is it,Baba? Be quick, for my Snake is getting very tired. He wishes to go back to his hole in the world beneath.”
“Well, then,” I answered in rather a shamefaced fashion, for Mavovo had an uncanny way of seeing into one’s secret motives, “I should like to know, if you can tell me, which you can’t, what has become of the white man with the long beard whom you black people call Dogeetah? He should have been here to go on this journey with us; indeed, he was to be our guide and we cannot find him. Where is he and why is he not here?”
“Have you anything about you that belonged to Dogeetah, Macumazana?”
“No,” I answered; “that is, yes,” and from my pocket I produced the stump of pencil that Brother John had given me, which, being economical, I had saved up ever since. Mavovo took it, and after considering it carefully as he had done in the case of the feathers, swept up a pile of ashes with his horny hand from the edge of the largest of the little fires, that indeed which had represented myself. These ashes he patted flat. Then he drew on them with the point of the pencil, tracing what seemed to me to be the rough image of a man, such as children scratch upon whitewashed walls. When he had finished he sat up and contemplated his handiwork with all the satisfaction of an artist. A breeze had risen from the sea and was blowing in little gusts, so that the fine ashes were disturbed, some of the lines of the picture being filled in and others altered or enlarged.
For a while Mavovo sat with his eyes shut. Then he opened them, studied the ashes and what remained of the picture, and taking a blanket that lay near by, threw it over his own head and over the ashes. Withdrawing it again presently he cast it aside and pointed to the picture which was now quite changed. Indeed, in the moonlight, it looked more like a landscape than anything else.
“All is clear, my father,” he said in a matter-of-fact voice. “The white wanderer, Dogeetah, is not dead. He lives, but he is sick. Something is the matter with one of his legs so that he cannot walk. Perhaps a bone is broken or some beast has bitten him. He lies in a hut such as Kaffirs make, only this hut has a verandah round it like your stoep, and there are drawings on the wall. The hut is a long way off, I don’t know where.”
“Is that all?” I asked, for he paused.
“No, not all. Dogeetah is recovering. He will join us in that country whither we journey, at a time of trouble. That is all, and the fee is half-a-crown.”
“You mean one shilling,” I suggested.
“No, my father Macumazana. One shilling for simple magic such as foretelling the fate of common black people. Half-a-crown for very difficult magic that has to do with white people, magic of which only great doctors, like me, Mavovo, are the masters.”
I gave him the half-crown and said:
“Look here, friend Mavovo, I believe in you as a fighter and a hunter, but as a magician I think you are a humbug. Indeed, I am so sure of it that if ever Dogeetah turns up at a time of trouble in that land whither we are journeying, I will make you a present of that double-barrelled rifle of mine which you admired so much.”
One of his rare smiles appeared upon Mavovo’s ugly face.
“Then give it to me now,Baba,” he said, “for it is already earned. My Snake cannot lie—especially when the fee is half-a-crown.”
I shook my head and declined, politely but with firmness.
“Ah!” said Mavovo, “you white men are very clever and think that you know everything. But it is not so, for in learning so much that is new, you have forgotten more that is old. When the Snake that is in you, Macumazana, dwelt in a black savage like me a thousand thousand years ago, you could have done and did what I do. But now you can only mock and say, ‘Mavovo the brave in battle, the great hunter, the loyal man, becomes a liar when he blows the burnt feather, or reads what the wind writes upon the charmed ashes.’”
“I do not say that you are a liar, Mavovo, I say that you are deceived by your own imaginings. It is not possible that man can know what is hidden from man.”
“Is it indeed so, O Macumazana, Watcher by Night? Am I, Mavovo, the pupil of Zikali, the Opener of Roads, the greatest of wizards, indeed deceived by my own imaginings? And has man no other eyes but those in his head, that he cannot see what is hidden from man? Well, you say so and all we black people know that you are very clever, and why should I, a poor Zulu, be able to see what you cannot see? Yet when to-morrow one sends you a message from the ship in which we are to sail, begging you to come fast because there is trouble on the ship, then bethink you of your words and my words, and whether or no man can see what is hidden from man in the blackness of the future. Oh! that rifle of yours is mine already, though you will not give it to me now, you who think that I am a cheat. Well, my father Macumazana, because you think I am a cheat, never again will I blow the feather or read what the wind writes upon the ashes for you or any who eat your food.”