CHAPTER II. ALLAN MAKES A BET
CHAPTER III. MISS HOLMES
CHAPTER IV. HARÛT AND MARÛT
CHAPTER V. THE PLOT
CHAPTER VI. THE BONA FIDE GOLD MINE
CHAPTER VII. LORD RAGNALL’S STORY
CHAPTER VIII. THE START
CHAPTER IX. THE MEETING IN THE DESERT
CHAPTER X. CHARGE!
CHAPTER XI. ALLAN IS CAPTURED
CHAPTER XII. THE FIRST CURSE
CHAPTER XIII. JANA
CHAPTER XIV. THE CHASE
CHAPTER XV. THE DWELLER IN THE CAVE
CHAPTER XVI. HANS STEALS THE KEYS
CHAPTER XVII. THE SANCTUARY AND THE OATH
CHAPTER XVIII. THE EMBASSY
CHAPTER XIX. ALLAN QUATERMAIN MISSES
CHAPTER XX. ALLAN WEEPS
CHAPTER XXI. HOMEWARDS
CHAPTER I.
ALLAN GIVES A SHOOTING LESSON
Now I, Allan Quatermain, come to the story of what was, perhaps, one of
the strangest of all the adventures which have befallen me in the
course of a life that so far can scarcely be called tame or humdrum.
Amongst many other things it tells of the war against the Black Kendah
people and the death of Jana, their elephant god. Often since then I
have wondered if this creature was or was not anything more than a mere
gigantic beast of the forest. It seems improbable, even impossible, but
the reader of future days may judge of this matter for himself.
Also he can form his opinion as to the religion of the White Kendah and
their pretensions to a certain degree of magical skill. Of this magic I
will make only one remark: If it existed at all, it was by no means
infallible. To take a single instance, Harût and Marût were convinced
by divination that I, and I only, could kill Jana, which was why they
invited me to Kendahland. Yet in the end it was Hans who killed him.
Jana nearly killed me!
Now to my tale.
In another history, called “The Holy Flower,” I have told how I came to
England with a young gentleman of the name of Scroope, partly to see
him safely home after a hunting accident, and partly to try to dispose
of a unique orchid for a friend of mine called Brother John by the
white people, and Dogeetah by the natives, who was popularly supposed
to be mad, but, in fact, was very sane indeed. So sane was he that he
pursued what seemed to be an absolutely desperate quest for over twenty
years, until, with some humble assistance on my part, he brought it to
a curiously successful issue. But all this tale is told in “The Holy
Flower,” and I only allude to it here, that is at present, to explain
how I came to be in England.
While in this country I stayed for a few days with Scroope, or, rather,
with his fiancée and her people, at a fine house in Essex. (I called it
Essex to avoid the place being identified, but really it was one of the
neighbouring counties.) During my visit I was taken to see a much finer
place, a splendid old castle with brick gateway towers, that had been
wonderfully well restored and turned into a most luxurious modern
dwelling. Let us call it “Ragnall,” the seat of a baron of that name.
I had heard a good deal about Lord Ragnall, who, according to all
accounts, seemed a kind of Admirable Crichton. He was said to be
wonderfully handsome, a great scholar—he had taken a double first at
college; a great athlete—he had been captain of the Oxford boat at the
University race; a very promising speaker who had already made his mark
in the House of Lords; a sportsman who had shot tigers and other large
game in India; a poet who had published a successful volume of verse
under a pseudonym; a good solider until he left the Service; and
lastly, a man of enormous wealth, owning, in addition to his estates,
several coal mines and an entire town in the north of England.
“Dear me!” I said when the list was finished, “he seems to have been
born with a whole case of gold spoons in his mouth. I hope one of them
will not choke him,” adding: “Perhaps he will be unlucky in love.”
“That’s just where he is most lucky of all,” answered the young lady to
whom I was talking—it was Scroope’s fiancée, Miss Manners—“for he is
engaged to a lady that, I am told, is the loveliest, sweetest,
cleverest girl in all England, and they absolutely adore each other.”
“Dear me!” I repeated. “I wonder what Fate _has_ got up its sleeve for
Lord Ragnall and his perfect lady-love?”
I was doomed to find out one day.
So it came about that when, on the following morning, I was asked if I
would like to see the wonders of Ragnall Castle, I answered “Yes.”
Really, however, I wanted to have a look at Lord Ragnall himself, if
possible, for the account of his many perfections had impressed the
imagination of a poor colonist like myself, who had never found an
opportunity of setting his eyes upon a kind of human angel. Human
devils I had met in plenty, but never a single angel—at least, of the
male sex. Also there was always the possibility that I might get a
glimpse of the still more angelic lady to whom he was engaged, whose
name, I understood, was the Hon. Miss Holmes. So I said that nothing
would please me more than to see this castle.
Thither we drove accordingly through the fine, frosty air, for the
month was December. On reaching the castle, Mr. Scroope was told that
Lord Ragnall, whom he knew well, was out shooting somewhere in the
park, but that, of course, he could show his friend over the place. So
we went in, the three of us, for Miss Manners, to whom Scroope was to
be married very shortly, had driven us over in her pony carriage. The
porter at the gateway towers took us to the main door of the castle and
handed us over to another man, whom he addressed as Mr. Savage,
whispering to me that he was his lordship’s personal attendant.
I remember the name, because it seemed to me that I had never seen
anyone who looked much less savage. In truth, his appearance was that
of a duke in disguise, as I imagine dukes to be, for I never set eyes
on one. His dress—he wore a black morning cut-away coat—was faultless.
His manners were exquisite, polite to the verge of irony, but with a
hint of haughty pride in the background. He was handsome also, with a
fine nose and a hawk-like eye, while a touch of baldness added to the
general effect. His age may have been anything between thirty-five and
forty, and the way he deprived me of my hat and stick, to which I
strove to cling, showed, I thought, resolution of character. Probably,
I reflected to myself, he considers me an unusual sort of person who
might damage the pictures and other objects of art with the stick, and
not seeing his way how to ask me to give it up without suggesting
suspicion, has hit upon the expedient of taking my hat also.
In after days Mr. Samuel Savage informed me that I was quite right in
this surmise. He said he thought that, judging from my somewhat
unconventional appearance, I might be one of the dangerous class of
whom he had been reading in the papers, namely, a “hanarchist.” I write
the word as he pronounced it, for here comes the curious thing. This
man, so flawless, so well instructed in some respects, had a fault
which gave everything away. His h’s were uncertain. Three of them would
come quite right, but the fourth, let us say, would be conspicuous
either by its utter absence or by its unwanted appearance. He could
speak, when describing the Ragnall pictures, in rotund and flowing
periods that would scarcely have disgraced the pen of Gibbon. Then
suddenly that “h” would appear or disappear, and the illusion was over.
It was like a sudden shock of cold water down the back. I never
discovered the origin of his family; it was a matter of which he did
not speak, perhaps because he was vague about it himself; but if an
earl of Norman blood had married a handsome Cockney kitchenmaid of
native ability, I can quite imagine that Samuel Savage might have been
a child of the union. For the rest he was a good man and a faithful
one, for whom I have a high respect.
On this occasion he conducted us round the castle, or, rather, its more
public rooms, showing us many treasures and, I should think, at least
two hundred pictures by eminent and departed artists, which gave him an
opportunity of exhibiting a peculiar, if somewhat erratic, knowledge of
history. To tell the truth, I began to wish that it were a little less
full in detail, since on a December day those large apartments felt
uncommonly cold. Scroope and Miss Manners seemed to keep warm, perhaps
with the inward fires of mutual admiration, but as I had no one to
admire except Mr. Savage, a temperature of about 35 degrees produced
its natural effect upon me.
At length we took a short cut from the large to the little gallery
through a warmed and comfortable room, which I understood was Lord
Ragnall’s study. Halting for a moment by one of the fires, I observed a
picture on the wall, over which a curtain was drawn, and asked Mr.
Savage what it might be.
“That, sir,” he replied with a kind of haughty reserve, “is the
portrait of her future ladyship, which his lordship keeps for his
private heye.”
Miss Manners sniggered, and I said:
“Oh, thank you. What an ill-omened kind of thing to do!”
Then, observing through an open door the hall in which my hat had been
taken from me, I lingered and as the others vanished in the little
gallery, slipped into it, recovered my belongings, and passed out to
the garden, purposing to walk there till I was warm again and Scroope
reappeared. While I marched up and down a terrace, on which, I
remember, several very cold-looking peacocks were seated, like
conscientious birds that knew it was their duty to be ornamental,
however low the temperature, I heard some shots fired, apparently in a
clump of ilex oaks which grew about five hundred yards away, and
reflected to myself that they seemed to be those of a small rifle, not
of a shotgun.
My curiosity being excited as to what was to be an almost professional
matter, I walked towards the grove, making a circuit through a
shrubbery. At length I found myself near to the edge of a glade, and
perceived, standing behind the shelter of a magnificent ilex, two men.
One of these was a young keeper, and the other, from his appearance, I
felt sure must be Lord Ragnall himself. Certainly he was a
splendid-looking man, very tall, very broad, very handsome, with a
peaked beard, a kind and charming face, and large dark eyes. He wore a
cloak upon his shoulders, which was thrown back from over a velvet
coat, and, except for the light double-barrelled rifle in his hand,
looked exactly like a picture by Van Dyck which Mr. Savage had just
informed me was that of one of his lordship’s ancestors of the time of
Charles I.
Standing behind another oak, I observed that he was trying to shoot
wood-pigeons as they descended to feed upon the acorns, for which the
hard weather had made them greedy. From time to time these beautiful
blue birds appeared and hovered a moment before they settled, whereon
the sportsman fired and—they flew away. _Bang! Bang!_ went the
double-barrelled rifle, and off fled the pigeon.
“Damn!” said the sportsman in a pleasant, laughing voice; “that’s the
twelfth I have missed, Charles.”
“You hit his tail, my lord. I saw a feather come out. But, my lord, as
I told you, there ain’t no man living what can kill pigeons on the wing
with a bullet, even when they seem to sit still in the air.”
“I have heard of one, Charles. Mr. Scroope has a friend from Africa
staying with him who, he swears, could knock over four out of six.”
“Then, my lord, Mr. Scroope has a friend what lies,” replied Charles as
he handed him the second rifle.
This was too much for me. I stepped forward, raising my hat politely,
and said:
“Sir, forgive me for interrupting you, but you are not shooting at
those wood-pigeons in the right way. Although they seem to hover just
before they settle, they are dropping much faster than you think. Your
keeper was mistaken when he said that you knocked a feather out of the
tail of that last bird at which you fired two barrels. In both cases
you shot at least a foot above it, and what fell was a leaf from the
ilex tree.”
There was a moment’s silence, which was broken by Charles, who
ejaculated in a thick voice:
“Well, of all the cheek!”
Lord Ragnall, however, for it was he, looked first angry and then
amused.
“Sir,” he said, “I thank you for your advice, which no doubt is
excellent, for it is certainly true that I have missed every pigeon
which I tried to shoot with these confounded little rifles. But if you
could demonstrate in practice what you so kindly set out in precept,
the value of your counsel would be enhanced.”
Thus he spoke, mimicking, I have no doubt (for he had a sense of
humour), the manner of my address, which nervousness had made somewhat
pompous.
“Give me the rifle,” I answered, taking off my greatcoat.
He handed it me with a bow.
“Mind what you are about,” growled Charles. “That there thing is full
cocked and ‘air-triggered.”
I withered, or, rather, tried to wither him with a glance, but this
unbelieving keeper only stared back at me with insolence in his round
and bird-like eyes. Never before had I felt quite so angry with a
menial. Then a horrible doubt struck me. Supposing I should miss! I
knew very little of the manner of flight of English wood-pigeons, which
are not difficult to miss with a bullet, and nothing at all of these
particular rifles, though a glance at them showed me that they were
exquisite weapons of their sort and by a great maker. If I muffed the
thing now, how should I bear the scorn of Charles and the polite
amusement of his noble master? Almost I prayed that no more pigeons
would put in an appearance, and thus that the issue of my supposed
skill might be left in doubt.
But this was not to be. These birds came from far in ones or twos to
search for their favourite food, and the fact that others had been
scared away did not cause them to cease from coming. Presently I heard
Charles mutter:
“Now, then, look out, guv’nor. Here’s your chance of teaching his
lordship how to do it, though he does happen to be the best shot in
these counties.”
While he spoke two pigeons appeared, one a little behind the other,
coming down very straight. As they reached the opening in the ilex
grove they hovered, preparing to alight, for of us they could see
nothing, one at a distance of about fifty and the other of, say,
seventy yards away. I took the nearest, got on to it, allowing for the
drop and the angle, and touched the trigger of the rifle, which fell to
my shoulder very sweetly. The bullet struck that pigeon on the crop,
out of which fell a shower of acorns that it had been eating, as it
sank to the ground stone dead. Number two pigeon, realizing danger,
began to mount upwards almost straight. I fired the second barrel, and
by good luck shot its head off. Then I snatched the other rifle, which
Charles had been loading automatically, from his outstretched hand, for
at that moment I saw two more pigeons coming. At the first I risked a
difficult shot and hit it far back, knocking out its tail, but bringing
it, still fluttering, to the ground. The other, too, I covered, but
when I touched the trigger there was a click, no more.
This was my opportunity of coming even with Charles, and I availed
myself of it.
“Young man,” I said, while he gaped at me open-mouthed, “you should
learn to be careful with rifles, which are dangerous weapons. If you
give one to a shooter that is not loaded, it shows that you are capable
of anything.”
Then I turned, and addressing Lord Ragnall, added:
“I must apologize for that third shot of mine, which was infamous, for
I committed a similar fault to that against which I warned you, sir,
and did not fire far enough ahead. However, it may serve to show your
attendant the difference between the tail of a pigeon and an oak leaf,”
and I pointed to one of the feathers of the poor bird, which was still
drifting to the ground.
“Well, if this here snipe of a chap ain’t the devil in boots!”
exclaimed Charles to himself.
But his master cut him short with a look, then lifted his hat to me and
said:
“Sir, the practice much surpasses the precept, which is unusual. I
congratulate you upon a skill that almost partakes of the marvellous,
unless, indeed, chance——” And he stopped.
“It is natural that you should think so,” I replied; “but if more
pigeons come, and Mr. Charles will make sure that he loads the rifle, I
hope to undeceive you.”
At this moment, however, a loud shout from Scroope, who was looking for
me, reinforced by a shrill cry uttered by Miss Manners, banished every
pigeon within half a mile, a fact of which I was not sorry, since who
knows whether I should have hit all, or any, of the next three birds?
“I think my friends are calling me, so I will bid you good morning,” I
said awkwardly.
“One moment, sir,” he exclaimed. “Might I first ask you your name? Mine
is Ragnall—Lord Ragnall.”
“And mine is Allan Quatermain,” I said.
“Oh!” he answered, “that explains matters. Charles, this is Mr.
Scroope’s friend, the gentleman that you said—exaggerated. I think you
had better apologize.”
But Charles was gone, to pick up the pigeons, I suppose.
At this moment Scroope and the young lady appeared, having heard our
voices, and a general explanation ensued.
“Mr. Quatermain has been giving me a lesson in shooting pigeons on the
wing with a small-bore rifle,” said Lord Ragnall, pointing to the dead
birds that still lay upon the ground.
“He is competent to do that,” said Scroope.
“Painfully competent,” replied his lordship. “If you don’t believe me,
ask the under-keeper.”
“It is the only thing I can do,” I explained modestly. “Rifle-shooting
is my trade, and I have made a habit of practising at birds on the wing
with ball. I have no doubt that with a shot-gun your lordship would
leave me nowhere, for that is a game at which I have had little
practice, except when shooting for the pot in Africa.”
“Yes,” interrupted Scroope, “you wouldn’t have any chance at that,
Allan, against one of the finest shots in England.”
“I’m not so sure,” said Lord Ragnall, laughing pleasantly. “I have an
idea that Mr. Quatermain is full of surprises. However, with his leave,
we’ll see. If you have a day to spare, Mr. Quatermain, we are going to
shoot through the home coverts to-morrow, which haven’t been touched
till now, and I hope you will join us.”
“It is most kind of you, but that is impossible,” I answered with
firmness. “I have no gun here.”
“Oh, never mind that, Mr. Quatermain. I have a pair of
breech-loaders”—these were new things at that date—“which have been
sent down to me to try. I am going to return them, because they are
much too short in the stock for me. I think they would just suit you,
and you are quite welcome to the use of them.”
Again I excused myself, guessing that the discomfited Charles would put
all sorts of stories about concerning me, and not wishing to look
foolish before a party of grand strangers, no doubt chosen for their
skill at this particular form of sport.
“Well, Allan,” exclaimed Scroope, who always had a talent for saying
the wrong thing, “you are quite right not to go into a competition with
Lord Ragnall over high pheasants.”
I flushed, for there was some truth in his blundering remark, whereon
Lord Ragnall said with ready tact:
“I asked Mr. Quatermain to shoot, not to a shooting match, Scroope, and
I hope he’ll come.”
This left me no option, and with a sinking heart I had to accept.
“Sorry I can’t ask you too, Scroope,” said his lordship, when details
had been arranged, “but we can only manage seven guns at this shoot.
But will you and Miss Manners come to dine and sleep to-morrow evening?
I should like to introduce your future wife to my future wife,” he
added, colouring a little.
Miss Manners being devoured with curiosity as to the wonderful Miss
Holmes, of whom she had heard so much but never actually seen, accepted
at once, before her lover could get out a word, whereon Scroope
volunteered to bring me over in the morning and load for me. Being
possessed by a terror that I should be handed over to the care of the
unsympathetic Charles, I replied that I should be very grateful, and so
the thing was settled.
On our way home we passed through a country town, of which I forget the
name, and the sight of a gunsmith’s shop there reminded me that I had
no cartridges. So I stopped to order some, as, fortunately, Lord
Ragnall had mentioned that the guns he was going to lend me were
twelve-bores. The tradesman asked me how many cartridges I wanted, and
when I replied “a hundred,” stared at me and said:
“If, as I understood, sir, you are going to the big winter shoot at
Ragnall to-morrow, you had better make it three hundred and fifty at
least. I shall be there to watch, like lots of others, and I expect to
see nearly two hundred fired by each gun at the last Lake stand.”
“Very well,” I answered, fearing to show more ignorance by further
discussion. “I will call for the cartridges on my way to-morrow
morning. Please load them with three drachms of powder.”
“Yes, sir, and an ounce and an eighth of No. 5 shot, sir? That’s what
all the gentlemen use.”
“No,” I answered, “No. 3; please be sure as to that. Good evening.”
The gunsmith stared at me, and as I left the shop I heard him remark to
his assistant:
“That African gent must think he’s going out to shoot ostriches with
buck shot. I expect he ain’t no good, whatever they may say about him.”