HASSAN
I suppose it must have been two hours after dawn on the following
morning that I was awakened by knocks upon the door and the voice of
Jack saying that Sam, the cook, wanted to speak to me.
Wondering what he could be doing there, as I understood he was sleeping
on the ship, I called out that he was to come in. Now this Sam, I should
say, hailed from the Cape, and was a person of mixed blood. The original
stock, I imagine, was Malay which had been crossed with Indian coolie.
Also, somewhere or other, there was a dash of white and possibly, but of
this I am not sure, a little Hottentot. The result was a person of
few vices and many virtues. Sammy, I may say at once, was perhaps the
biggest coward I ever met. He could not help it, it was congenital,
though, curiously enough, this cowardice of his never prevented him from
rushing into fresh danger. Thus he knew that the expedition upon which
I was engaged would be most hazardous; remembering his weakness I
explained this to him very clearly. Yet that knowledge did not deter him
from imploring that he might be allowed to accompany me. Perhaps this
was because there was some mutual attachment between us, as in the case
of Hans. Once, a good many years before, I had rescued Sammy from a
somewhat serious scrape by declining to give evidence against him. I
need not enter into the details, but a certain sum of money over which
he had control had disappeared. I will merely say, therefore, that at
the time he was engaged to a coloured lady of very expensive tastes,
whom in the end he never married.
After this, as it chanced, he nursed me through an illness. Hence the
attachment of which I have spoken.
Sammy was the son of a native Christian preacher, and brought up upon
what he called “The Word.” He had received an excellent education for a
person of his class, and in addition to many native dialects with which
a varied career had made him acquainted, spoke English perfectly, though
in the most bombastic style. Never would he use a short word if a long
one came to his hand, or rather to his tongue. For several years of his
life he was, I believe, a teacher in a school at Capetown where coloured
persons received their education; his “department,” as he called it,
being “English Language and Literature.”
Wearying of or being dismissed from his employment for some reason that
he never specified, he had drifted up the coast to Zanzibar, where he
turned his linguistic abilities to the study of Arabic and became the
manager or head cook of an hotel. After a few years he lost this billet,
I know not how or why, and appeared at Durban in what he called a
“reversed position.” Here it was that we met again, just before my
expedition to Pongo-land.
In manners he was most polite, in disposition most religious; I believe
he was a Baptist by faith, and in appearance a small, brown dandy of
a man of uncertain age, who wore his hair parted in the middle and,
whatever the circumstances, was always tidy in his garments.
I took him on because he was in great distress, an excellent cook, the
best of nurses, and above all for the reason that, as I have said,
we were in a way attached to each other. Also, he always amused me
intensely, which goes for something on a long journey of the sort that I
contemplated.
Such in brief was Sammy.
As he entered the room I saw that his clothes were very wet and asked
him at once if it were raining, or whether he had got drunk and been
sleeping in the damp grass.
“No, Mr. Quatermain,” he answered, “the morning is extremely fine, and
like the poor Hottentot, Hans, I have abjured the use of intoxicants.
Though we differ on much else, in this matter we agree.”
“Then what the deuce is up?” I interrupted, to cut short his flow of
fine language.
“Sir, there is trouble on the ship” (remembering Mavovo I started at
these words) “where I passed the night in the company of Mr. Somers at
his special request.” (It was the other way about really.) “This
morning before the dawn, when he thought that everybody was asleep, the
Portuguese captain and some of his Arabs began to weigh the anchor quite
quietly; also to hoist the sails. But Mr. Somers and I, being very much
awake, came out of the cabin and he sat upon the capstan with a revolver
in his hand, saying--well, sir, I will not repeat what he said.”
“No, don’t. What happened then?”
“Then, sir, there followed much noise and confusion. The Portugee and
the Arabs threatened Mr. Somers, but he, sir, continued to sit upon
the capstan with the stern courage of a rock in a rushing stream, and
remarked that he would see them all somewhere before they touched it.
After this, sir, I do not know what occurred, since while I watched from
the bulwarks someone knocked me head over heels into the sea and being
fortunately, a good swimmer, I gained the shore and hurried here to
advise you.”
“And did you advise anyone else, you idiot?” I asked.
“Yes, sir. As I sped along I communicated to an officer of the port that
there was the devil of a mess upon the _Maria_ which he would do well to
investigate.”
By this time I was in my shirt and trousers and shouting to Mavovo and
the others. Soon they arrived, for as the costume of Mavovo and his
company consisted only of a moocha and a blanket, it did not take them
long to dress.
“Mavovo,” I began, “there is trouble on the ship----”
“O _Baba_,” he interrupted with something resembling a grin, “it is very
strange, but last night I dreamed that I told you----”
“Curse your dreams,” I said. “Gather the men and go down--no, that won’t
work, there would be murder done. Either it is all over now or it is
all right. Get the hunters ready; I come with them. The luggage can be
fetched afterwards.”
Within less than an hour we were at that wharf off which the _Maria_
lay in what one day will be the splendid port of Durban, though in
those times its shipping arrangements were exceedingly primitive. A
strange-looking band we must have been. I, who was completely dressed,
and I trust tidy, marched ahead. Next came Hans in the filthy wide-awake
hat which he usually wore and greasy corduroys and after him the
oleaginous Sammy arrayed in European reach-me-downs, a billy-cock and a
bright blue tie striped with red, garments that would have looked very
smart had it not been for his recent immersion. After him followed the
fierce-looking Mavovo and his squad of hunters, all of whom wore the
“ring” or _isicoco_, as the Zulus call it; that is, a circle of polished
black wax sewn into their short hair. They were a grim set of fellows,
but as, according to a recent law it was not allowable for them to
appear armed in the town, their guns had already been shipped, while
their broad stabbing spears were rolled up in their sleeping mats, the
blades wrapped round with dried grass.
Each of them, however, bore in his hand a large knobkerry of red-wood,
and they marched four by four in martial fashion. It is true that when
we embarked on the big boat to go to the ship much of their warlike
ardour evaporated, since these men, who feared nothing on the land, were
terribly afraid of that unfamiliar element, the water.
We reached the _Maria_, an unimposing kind of tub, and climbed aboard.
On looking aft the first thing that I saw was Stephen seated on the
capstan with a pistol in his hand, as Sammy had said. Near by, leaning
on the bulwark was the villainous-looking Portugee, Delgado, apparently
in the worst of tempers and surrounded by a number of equally
villainous-looking Arab sailors clad in dirty white. In front was the
Captain of the port, a well-known and esteemed gentleman of the name
of Cato, like myself a small man who had gone through many adventures.
Accompanied by some attendants, he was seated on the after-skylight,
smoking, with his eyes fixed upon Stephen and the Portugee.
“Glad to see you, Quatermain,” he said. “There’s some row on here, but
I have only just arrived and don’t understand Portuguese, and the
gentleman on the capstan won’t leave it to explain.”
“What’s up, Stephen?” I asked, after shaking Mr. Cato by the hand.
“What’s up?” replied Somers. “This man,” and he pointed to Delgado,
“wanted to sneak out to sea with all our goods, that’s all, to say
nothing of me and Sammy, whom, no doubt, he’d have chucked overboard,
as soon as he was out of sight of land. However, Sammy, who knows
Portuguese, overheard his little plans and, as you see, I objected.”
Well, Delgado was asked for his version of the affair, and, as I
expected, explained that he only intended to get a little nearer to the
bar and there wait till we arrived. Of course he lied and knew that we
were aware of the fact and that his intention had been to slip out to
sea with all our valuable property, which he would sell after having
murdered or marooned Stephen and the poor cook. But as nothing could be
proved, and we were now in strong enough force to look after ourselves
and our belongings, I did not see the use of pursuing the argument. So I
accepted the explanation with a smile, and asked everybody to join in a
morning nip.
Afterwards Stephen told me that while I was engaged with Mavovo on the
previous night, a message had reached him from Sammy who was on board
the ship in charge of our belongings, saying that he would be glad of
some company. Knowing the cook’s nervous nature, fortunately enough
he made up his mind at once to go and sleep upon the _Maria_. In the
morning trouble arose as Sammy had told me. What he did not tell me was
that he was not knocked overboard, as he said, but took to the water of
his own accord, when complications with Delgado appeared imminent.
“I understand the position,” I said, “and all’s well that ends well. But
it’s lucky you thought of coming on board to sleep.”
After this everything went right. I sent some of the men back in the
charge of Stephen for our remaining effects, which they brought safely
aboard, and in the evening we sailed. Our voyage up to Kilwa was
beautiful, a gentle breeze driving us forward over a sea so calm that
not even Hans, who I think was one of the worst sailors in the world,
or the Zulu hunters were really sick, though as Sammy put it, they
“declined their food.”
I think it was on the fifth night of our voyage, or it may have been
the seventh, that we anchored one afternoon off the island of Kilwa, not
very far from the old Portuguese fort. Delgado, with whom we had little
to do during the passage, hoisted some queer sort of signal. In response
a boat came off containing what he called the Port officials, a band of
cut-throat, desperate-looking, black fellows in charge of a
pock-marked, elderly half-breed who was introduced to us as the Bey
Hassan-ben-Mohammed. That Mr. Hassan-ben-Mohammed entirely disapproved
of our presence on the ship, and especially of our proposed landing
at Kilwa, was evident to me from the moment that I set eyes upon his
ill-favoured countenance. After a hurried conference with Delgado, he
came forward and addressed me in Arabic, of which I could not understand
a word. Luckily, however, Sam the cook, who, as I think I said, was a
great linguist, had a fair acquaintance with this tongue, acquired, it
appears, while at the Zanzibar hotel; so, not trusting Delgado, I called
on him to interpret.
“What is he saying, Sammy?” I asked.
He began to talk to Hassan and replied presently:
“Sir, he makes you many compliments. He says that he has heard what a
great man you are from his friend, Delgado, also that you and Mr. Somers
are English, a nation which he adores.”
“Does he?” I exclaimed. “I should never have thought it from his looks.
Thank him for his kind remarks and tell him that we are going to land
here and march up country to shoot.”
Sammy obeyed, and the conversation went on somewhat as follows:
“With all humility I (i.e. Hassan) request you not to land. This country
is not a fit place for such noble gentlemen. There is nothing to eat and
no head of game has been seen for years. The people in the interior
are savages of the worst sort, whom hunger has driven to take to
cannibalism. I would not have your blood upon my head. I beg of you,
therefore, to go on in this ship to Delagoa Bay, where you will find a
good hotel, or to any other place you may select.”
A.Q.: “Might I ask you, noble sir, what is your position at Kilwa, that
you consider yourself responsible for our safety?”
H.: “Honoured English lord, I am a trader here of Portuguese
nationality, but born of an Arab mother of high birth and brought up
among that people. I have gardens on the mainland, tended by my native
servants who are as children to me, where I grow palms and cassava
and ground nuts and plantains and many other kinds of produce. All
the tribes in this district look upon me as their chief and venerated
father.”
A.Q.: “Then, noble Hassan, you will be able to pass us through them,
seeing that we are peaceful hunters who wish to harm no one.”
(A long consultation between Hassan and Delgado, during which I ordered
Mavovo to bring his Zulus on deck with their guns.)
H.: “Honoured English lord, I cannot allow you to land.”
A.Q.: “Noble son of the Prophet, I intend to land with my friend, my
followers, my donkeys and my goods early to-morrow morning. If I can
do so with your leave I shall be glad. If not----” and I glanced at the
fierce group of hunters behind me.
H.: “Honoured English lord, I shall be grieved to use force, but let me
tell you that in my peaceful village ashore I have at least a hundred
men armed with rifles, whereas here I see under twenty.”
A.Q., after reflection and a few words with Stephen Somers: “Can you
tell me, noble sir, if from your peaceful village you have yet sighted
the English man-of-war, _Crocodile_; I mean the steamer that is engaged
in watching for the dhows of wicked slavers? A letter from her captain
informed me that he would be in these waters by yesterday. Perhaps,
however, he has been delayed for a day or two.”
If I had exploded a bomb at the feet of the excellent Hassan its effect
could scarcely have been more remarkable than that of this question. He
turned--not pale, but a horrible yellow, and exclaimed:
“English man-of-war! _Crocodile_! I thought she had gone to Aden to
refit and would not be back at Zanzibar for four months.”
A.Q.: “You have been misinformed, noble Hassan. She will not refit till
October. Shall I read you the letter?” and I produced a piece of paper
from my pocket. “It may be interesting since my friend, the captain,
whom you remember is named Flowers, mentions you in it. He says----”
Hassan waved his hand. “It is enough. I see, honoured lord, that you are
a man of mettle not easily to be turned from your purpose. In the name
of God the Compassionate, land and go wheresoever you like.”
A.Q.: “I think that I had almost rather wait until the _Crocodile_ comes
in.”
H.: “Land! Land! Captain Delgado, get up the cargo and man your boat.
Mine too is at the service of these lords. You, Captain, will like to
get away by this night’s tide. There is still light, Lord Quatermain,
and such hospitality as I can offer is at your service.”
A.Q.: “Ah! I knew Bey Hassan, that you were only joking with me when you
said that you wished us to go elsewhere. An excellent jest, truly, from
one whose hospitality is so famous. Well, to fall in with your wishes,
we will come ashore this evening, and if the Captain Delgado chances to
sight the Queen’s ship _Crocodile_ before he sails, perhaps he will be
so good as to signal to us with a rocket.”
“Certainly, certainly,” interrupted Delgado, who up to this time had
pretended that he understood no English, the tongue in which I was
speaking to the interpreter, Sammy.
Then he turned and gave orders to his Arab crew to bring up our
belongings from the hold and to lower the _Maria’s_ boat.
Never did I see goods transferred in quicker time. Within half an hour
every one of our packages was off that ship, for Stephen Somers kept a
count of them. Our personal baggage went into the _Maria’s_ boat, and
the goods together with the four donkeys which were lowered on to the
top of them, were rumbled pell-mell into the barge-like punt belonging
to Hassan. Here also I was accommodated, with about half of our people,
the rest taking their seats in the smaller boat under the charge of
Stephen.
At length all was ready and we cast off.
“Farewell, Captain,” I cried to Delgado. “If you should sight the
_Crocodile_----”
At this point Delgado broke into such a torrent of bad language in
Portuguese, Arabic and English that I fear the rest of my remarks never
reached him.
As we rowed shorewards I observed that Hans, who was seated near to me
under the stomach of a jackass, was engaged in sniffing at the sides and
bottom of the barge, as a dog might do, and asked him what he was about.
“Very odd smell in this boat,” he whispered back in Dutch. “It stinks of
Kaffir man, just like the hold of the _Maria_. I think this boat is used
to carry slaves.”
“Be quiet,” I whispered back, “and stop nosing at those planks.” But to
myself I thought, Hans is right, we are in a nest of slave-traders, and
this Hassan is their leader.
We rowed past the island, on which I observed the ruins of an old
Portuguese fort and some long grass-roofed huts, where, I reflected, the
slaves were probably kept until they could be shipped away. Observing my
glance fixed upon these, Hassan hastened to explain, through Sammy, that
they were storehouses in which he dried fish and hides, and kept goods.
“How interesting!” I answered. “Further south we dry hides in the sun.”
Crossing a narrow channel we arrived at a rough jetty where we
disembarked, whence we were led by Hassan not to the village which I now
saw upon our left, but to a pleasant-looking, though dilapidated
house that stood a hundred yards from the shore. Something about the
appearance of this house impressed me with the idea that it was never
built by slavers; the whole look of the place with its verandah and
garden suggested taste and civilisation. Evidently educated people had
designed it and resided here. I glanced about me and saw, amidst a grove
of neglected orange trees that were surrounded with palms of some
age, the ruins of a church. About this there was no doubt, for there,
surmounted by a stone cross, was a little pent-house in which still hung
the bell that once summoned the worshippers to prayer.
“Tell the English lord,” said Hassan to Sammy, “that these buildings
were a mission station of the Christians, who abandoned them more than
twenty years ago. When I came here I found them empty.”
“Indeed,” I answered, “and what were the names of those who dwelt in
them?”
“I never heard,” said Hassan; “they had been gone a long while when I
came.”
Then we went up to the house, and for the next hour and more were
engaged with our baggage which was piled in a heap in what had been the
garden and in unpacking and pitching two tents for the hunters which I
caused to be placed immediately in front of the rooms that were assigned
to us. Those rooms were remarkable in their way. Mine had evidently
been a sitting chamber, as I judged from some much broken articles of
furniture, that appeared to be of American make. That which Stephen
occupied had once served as a sleeping-place, for the bedstead of iron
still remained there. Also there were a hanging bookcase, now fallen,
and some tattered remnants of books. One of these, that oddly enough was
well-preserved, perhaps because the white ants or other creatures did
not like the taste of its morocco binding, was a Keble’s _Christian
Year_, on the title-page of which was written, “To my dearest Elizabeth
on her birthday, from her husband.” I took the liberty to put it in my
pocket. On the wall, moreover, still hung the small watercolour picture
of a very pretty young woman with fair hair and blue eyes, in the corner
of which picture was written in the same handwriting as that in the
book, “Elizabeth, aged twenty.” This also I annexed, thinking that it
might come in useful as a piece of evidence.
“Looks as if the owners of this place had left it in a hurry,
Quatermain,” said Stephen.
“That’s it, my boy. Or perhaps they didn’t leave; perhaps they stopped
here.”
“Murdered?”
I nodded and said, “I dare say friend Hassan could tell us something
about the matter. Meanwhile as supper isn’t ready yet, let us have a
look at that church while it is light.”
We walked through the palm and orange grove to where the building stood
finely placed upon a mound. It was well-constructed of a kind of coral
rock, and a glance showed us that it had been gutted by fire; the
discoloured walls told their own tale. The interior was now full of
shrubs and creepers, and an ugly, yellowish snake glided from what had
been the stone altar. Without, the graveyard was enclosed by a broken
wall, only we could see no trace of graves. Near the gateway, however,
was a rough mound.
“If we could dig into that,” I said, “I expect we should find the bones
of the people who inhabited this place. Does that suggest anything to
you, Stephen?”
“Nothing, except that they were probably killed.”
“You should learn to draw inferences. It is a useful art, especially in
Africa. It suggests to me that, if you are right, the deed was not done
by natives, who would never take the trouble to bury the dead. Arabs,
on the contrary, might do so, especially if there were any bastard
Portuguese among them who called themselves Christians. But whatever
happened must have been a long while ago,” and I pointed to a self-sown
hardwood tree growing from the mound which could scarcely have been less
than twenty years old.
We returned to the house to find that our meal was ready. Hassan had
asked us to dine with him, but for obvious reasons I preferred that
Sammy should cook our food and that he should dine with us. He appeared
full of compliments, though I could see hate and suspicion in his eye,
and we fell to on the kid that we had bought from him, for I did not
wish to accept any gifts from this fellow. Our drink was square-face
gin, mixed with water that I sent Hans to fetch with his own hands from
the stream that ran by the house, lest otherwise it should be drugged.
At first Hassan, like a good Mohammedan, refused to touch any spirits,
but as the meal went on he politely relented upon this point, and I
poured him out a liberal tot. The appetite comes in eating, as the
Frenchman said, and the same thing applies to drinking. So at least it
was in Hassan’s case, who probably thought that the quantity swallowed
made no difference to his sin. After the third dose of square-face he
grew quite amiable and talkative. Thinking the opportunity a good one,
I sent for Sammy, and through him told our host that we were anxious to
hire twenty porters to carry our packages. He declared that there was
not such a thing as a porter within a hundred miles, whereon I gave him
some more gin. The end of it was that we struck a bargain, I forget for
how much, he promising to find us twenty good men who were to stay with
us for as long as we wanted them.
Then I asked him about the destruction of the mission station, but
although he was half-drunk, on this point he remained very close. All he
would say was that he had heard that twenty years ago the people called
the Mazitu, who were very fierce, had raided right down to the coast and
killed those who dwelt there, except a white man and his wife who had
fled inland and never been seen again.
“How many of them were buried in that mound by the church?” I asked
quickly.
“Who told you they were buried there?” he replied, with a start, but
seeing his mistake, went on, “I do not know what you mean. I never heard
of anyone being buried. Sleep well, honoured lords, I must go and see to
the loading of my goods upon the _Maria_.” Then rising, he salaamed and
walked, or rather rolled, away.
“So the _Maria_ hasn’t sailed after all,” I said, and whistled in a
certain fashion. Instantly Hans crept into the room out of the darkness,
for this was my signal to him.
“Hans,” I said, “I hear sounds upon that island. Slip down to the shore
and spy out what is happening. No one will see you if you are careful.”
“No, Baas,” he answered with a grin, “I do not think that anyone will
see Hans if he is careful, especially at night,” and he slid away as
quietly as he had come.
Now I went out and spoke to Mavovo, telling him to keep a good watch
and to be sure that every man had his gun ready, as I thought that these
people were slave-traders and might attack us in the night.
In that event, I said, they were to fall back upon the stoep, but not to
fire until I gave the word.
“Good, my father,” he answered. “This is a lucky journey; I never
thought there would be hope of war so soon. My Snake forgot to mention
it the other night. Sleep safe, Macumazana. Nothing that walks shall
reach you while we live.”
“Don’t be so sure,” I answered, and we lay down in the bedroom with our
clothes on and our rifles by our sides.
The next thing I remember was someone shaking me by the shoulder. I
thought it was Stephen, who had agreed to keep awake for the first part
of the night and to call me at one in the morning. Indeed, he was awake,
for I could see the glow from the pipe he smoked.
“Baas,” whispered the voice of Hans, “I have found out everything. They
are loading the _Maria_ with slaves, taking them in big boats from the
island.”
“So,” I answered. “But how did you get here? Are the hunters asleep
without?”
He chuckled. “No, they are not asleep; they look with all their eyes and
listen with all their ears, yet old Hans passed through them; even the
Baas Somers did not hear him.”
“That I didn’t,” said Stephen; “thought a rat was moving, no more.”
I stepped through the place where the door had been on to the stoep.
By the light of the fire which the hunters had lit without I could see
Mavovo sitting wide awake, his gun upon his knees, and beyond him two
sentries. I called him and pointed to Hans.
“See,” I said, “what good watchmen you are when one can step over your
heads and enter my room without your knowing it!”
Mavovo looked at the Hottentot and felt his clothes and boots to see
whether they were wet with the night dew.
“_Ow!_” he exclaimed in a surly voice, “I said that nothing which walks
could reach you, Macumazana, but this yellow snake has crawled between
us on his belly. Look at the new mud that stains his waistcoat.”
“Yet snakes can bite and kill,” answered Hans with a snigger. “Oh! you
Zulus think that you are very brave, and shout and flourish spears and
battleaxes. One poor Hottentot dog is worth a whole impi of you after
all. No, don’t try to strike me, Mavovo the warrior, since we both serve
the same master in our separate ways. When it comes to fighting I will
leave the matter to you, but when it is a case of watching or spying,
do you leave it to Hans. Look here, Mavovo,” and he opened his hand in
which was a horn snuff-box such as Zulus sometimes carry in their ears.
“To whom does this belong?”
“It is mine,” said Mavovo, “and you have stolen it.”
“Yes,” jeered Hans, “it is yours. Also I stole it from your ear as I
passed you in the dark. Don’t you remember that you thought a gnat had
tickled you and hit up at your face?”
“It is true,” growled Mavovo, “and you, snake of a Hottentot, are great
in your own low way. Yet next time anything tickles me, I shall strike,
not with my hand, but with a spear.”
Then I turned them both out, remarking to Stephen that this was a good
example of the eternal fight between courage and cunning. After this, as
I was sure that Hassan and his friends were too busy to interfere with
us that night, we went to bed and slept the sleep of the just.
When I got up the next morning I found that Stephen Somers had already
risen and gone out, nor did he appear until I was half through my
breakfast.
“Where on earth have you been?” I asked, noting that his clothes were
torn and covered with wet moss.
“Up the tallest of those palm trees, Quatermain. Saw an Arab climbing
one of them with a rope and got another Arab to teach me the trick. It
isn’t really difficult, though it looks alarming.”
“What in the name of goodness----” I began.
“Oh!” he interrupted, “my ruling passion. Looking through the glasses I
thought I caught sight of an orchid growing near the crown, so went
up. It wasn’t an orchid after all, only a mass of yellow pollen. But I
learned something for my pains. Sitting in the top of that palm I saw
the _Maria_ working out from under the lee of the island. Also, far
away, I noted a streak of smoke, and watching it through the glasses,
made out what looked to me uncommonly like a man-of-war steaming slowly
along the coast. In fact, I am sure it was, and English too. Then the
mist came up and I lost sight of them.”
“My word!” I said, “that will be the _Crocodile_. What I told our host,
Hassan, was not altogether bunkum. Mr. Cato, the port officer at Durban,
mentioned to me that the _Crocodile_ was expected to call there within
the next fortnight to take in stores after a slave-hunting cruise down
the coast. Now it would be odd if she chanced to meet the _Maria_ and
asked to have a look at her cargo, wouldn’t it?”
“Not at all, Quatermain, for unless one or the other of them changes her
course that is just what she must do within the next hour or so, and I
jolly well hope she will. I haven’t forgiven that beast, Delgado, the
trick he tried to play on us by slipping away with our goods, to say
nothing of those poor devils of slaves. Pass the coffee, will you?”
For the next ten minutes we ate in silence, for Stephen had an excellent
appetite and was hungry after his morning climb.
Just as we finished our meal Hassan appeared, looking even more
villainous than he had done the previous day. I saw also that he was
in a truculent mood, induced perhaps by the headache from which he was
evidently suffering as a result of his potations. Or perhaps the fact
that the _Maria_ had got safe away with the slaves, as he imagined
unobserved by us, was the cause of the change of his demeanour. A third
alternative may have been that he intended to murder us during the
previous night and found no safe opportunity of carrying out his amiable
scheme.
We saluted him courteously, but without salaaming in reply he asked me
bluntly through Sammy when we intended to be gone, as such “Christian
dogs defiled his house,” which he wanted for himself.
I answered, as soon as the twenty bearers whom he had promised us
appeared, but not before.
“You lie,” he said. “I never promised you bearers; I have none here.”
“Do you mean that you shipped them all away in the _Maria_ with the
slaves last night?” I asked, sweetly.
My reader, have you ever taken note of the appearance and proceedings
of a tom-cat of established age and morose disposition when a little
dog suddenly disturbs it on the prowl? Have you observed how it contorts
itself into arched but unnatural shapes, how it swells visibly to almost
twice its normal size, how its hair stands up and its eyes flash, and
the stream of unmentionable language that proceeds from its open mouth?
If so, you will have a very good idea of the effect produced upon Hassan
by this remark of mine. The fellow looked as though he were going to
burst with rage. He rolled about, his bloodshot eyes seemed to protrude,
he cursed us horribly, he put his hand upon the hilt of the great knife
he wore, and finally he did what the tom-cat does, he spat.
Now, Stephen was standing with me, looking as cool as a cucumber and
very much amused, and being, as it chanced, a little nearer to Hassan
than I was, received the full benefit of this rude proceeding. My word!
didn’t it wake him up. He said something strong, and the next second
flew at the half-breed like a tiger, landing him a beauty straight upon
the nose. Back staggered Hassan, drawing his knife as he did so, but
Stephen’s left in the eye caused him to drop it, as he dropped himself.
I pounced upon the knife, and since it was too late to interfere, for
the mischief had been done, let things take their course and held back
the Zulus who had rushed up at the noise.
Hassan rose and, to do him credit, came on like a man, head down. His
great skull caught Stephen, who was the lighter of the two, in the chest
and knocked him over, but before the Arab could follow up the advantage,
he was on his feet again. Then ensued a really glorious mill. Hassan
fought with head and fists and feet, Stephen with fists alone. Dodging
his opponent’s rushes, he gave it to him as he passed, and soon his
coolness and silence began to tell. Once he was knocked over by a hooked
one under the jaw, but in the next round he sent the Arab literally
flying head over heels. Oh! how those Zulus cheered, and I, too, danced
with delight. Up Hassan came again, spitting out several teeth and,
adopting new tactics, grabbed Stephen round the middle. To and fro they
swung, the Arab trying to kick the Englishman with his knees and to bite
him also, till the pain reminded him of the absence of his front teeth.
Once he nearly got him down--nearly, but not quite, for the collar by
which he had gripped him (his object was to strangle) burst and, at that
juncture, Hassan’s turban fell over his face, blinding him for a moment.
Then Stephen gripped him round the middle with his left arm and with his
right pommelled him unmercifully till he sank in a sitting position to
the ground and held up his hand in token of surrender.
“The noble English lord has beaten me,” he gasped.
“Apologise!” yelled Stephen, picking up a handful of mud, “or I shove
this down your dirty throat.”
He seemed to understand. At any rate, he bowed till his forehead touched
the ground, and apologised very thoroughly.
“Now that is over,” I said cheerfully to him, “so how about those
bearers?”
“I have no bearers,” he answered.
“You dirty liar,” I exclaimed; “one of my people has been down to your
village there and says it is full of men.”
“Then go and take them for yourself,” he replied, viciously, for he knew
that the place was stockaded.
Now I was in a fix. It was all very well to give a slave-dealer the
thrashing he deserved, but if he chose to attack us with his Arabs we
should be in a poor way. Watching me with the eye that was not bunged
up, Hassan guessed my perplexity.
“I have been beaten like a dog,” he said, his rage returning to him with
his breath, “but God is compassionate and just, He will avenge in due
time.”
The words had not left his lips for one second when from somewhere out
at sea there floated the sullen boom of a great gun. At this moment,
too, an Arab rushed up from the shore, crying:
“Where is the Bey Hassan?”
“Here,” I said, pointing at him.
The Arab stared until I thought his eyes would drop out, for the Bey
Hassan was indeed a sight to see. Then he gabbled in a frightened voice:
“Captain, an English man-of-war is chasing the _Maria_.”
Boom went the great gun for the second time. Hassan said nothing, but
his jaw dropped, and I saw that he had lost exactly three teeth.
“That is the _Crocodile_,” I remarked slowly, causing Sammy to
translate, and as I spoke, produced from my inner pocket a Union Jack
which I had placed there after I heard that the ship was sighted.
“Stephen,” I went on as I shook it out, “if you have got your wind,
would you mind climbing up that palm tree again and signalling with this
to the _Crocodile_ out at sea?”
“By George! that’s a good idea,” said Stephen, whose jovial face,
although swollen, was now again wreathed in smiles. “Hans, bring me a
long stick and a bit of string.”
But Hassan did not think it at all a good idea.
“English lord,” he gasped, “you shall have the bearers. I will go to
fetch them.”
“No, you won’t,” I said, “you will stop here as a hostage. Send that
man.”
Hassan uttered some rapid orders and the messenger sped away, this time
towards the stockaded village on the right.
As he went another messenger arrived, who also stared amazedly at the
condition of his chief.
“Bey--if you are the Bey,” he said, in a doubtful voice, for by now
the amiable face of Hassan had begun to swell and colour, “with the
telescope we have seen that the English man-of-war has sent a boat and
boarded the _Maria_.”
“God is great!” muttered the discomfited Hassan, “and Delgado, who is a
thief and a traitor from his mother’s breast, will tell the truth. The
English sons of Satan will land here. All is finished; nothing is left
but flight. Bid the people fly into the bush and take the slaves--I mean
their servants. I will join them.”
“No, you won’t,” I interrupted, through Sammy; “at any rate, not at
present. You will come with us.”
The miserable Hassan reflected, then he asked:
“Lord Quatermain” (I remember the title, because it is the nearest I
ever got, or am likely to get, to the peerage), “if I furnish you with
the twenty bearers and accompany you for some days on your journey
inland, will you promise not to signal to your countrymen on the ship
and bring them ashore?”
“What do you think?” I asked of Stephen.
“Oh!” he answered, “I think I’d agree. This scoundrel has had a pretty
good dusting, and if once the _Crocodile_ people land, there’ll be an
end of our expedition. As sure as eggs are eggs they will carry us off
to Zanzibar or somewhere to give evidence before a slave court. Also
nothing will be gained, for by the time the sailors get here, all these
rascals will have bolted, except our friend, Hassan. You see it isn’t
as though we were sure he would be hung. He’d probably escape after all.
International law, subject of a foreign Power, no direct proof--that
kind of thing, you know.”
“Give me a minute or two,” I said, and began to reflect very deeply.
Whilst I was thus engaged several things happened. I saw twenty natives
being escorted towards us, doubtless the bearers who had been promised;
also I saw many others, accompanied by other natives, flying from the
village into the bush. Lastly, a third messenger arrived, who announced
that the _Maria_ was sailing away, apparently in charge of a prize-crew,
and that the man-of-war was putting about as though to accompany her.
Evidently she had no intention of effecting a landing upon what was,
nominally at any rate, Portuguese territory. Therefore, if anything was
to be done, we must act at once.
Well, the end of it was that, like a fool, I accepted Stephen’s advice
and did nothing, always the easiest course and generally that which
leads to most trouble. Ten minutes afterwards I changed my mind, but
then it was too late; the _Crocodile_ was out of signalling distance.
This was subsequent to a conversation with Hans.
“Baas,” said that worthy, in his leery fashion, “I think you have made a
mistake. You forget that these yellow devils in white robes who have
run away will come back again, and that when you return from up country,
they may be waiting for you. Now if the English man-of-war had destroyed
their town, and their slave-sheds, they might have gone somewhere else.
However,” he added, as an afterthought, glancing at the disfigured
Hassan, “we have their captain, and of course you mean to hang him,
Baas. Or if you don’t like to, leave it to me. I can hang men very well.
Once, when I was young, I helped the executioner at Cape Town.”
“Get out,” I said, but, nevertheless, I knew that Hans was right.