MR. MARNHAM
So much for preliminaries, now for the story.
The eighteen months had gone by, bringing with them to me their share
of adventure, weal and woe, with all of which at present I have no
concern. Behold me arriving very hot and tired in the post-cart from
Kimberley, whither I had gone to invest what I had saved out of my
Matabeleland contract in a very promising speculation whereof, today,
the promise remains and no more. I had been obliged to leave Kimberley
in a great hurry, before I ought indeed, because of the silly bargain
which I have just recorded. Of course I was sure that I should never
see Mr. Anscombe again, especially as I had heard nothing of him during
all this while, and had no reason to suppose that he was in Africa.
Still I had taken his £50 and he _might_ come. Also I have always
prided myself upon keeping an appointment.
The post-cart halted with a jerk in front of the _European Hotel_, and
I crawled, dusty and tired, from its interior, to find myself face to
face with Anscombe, who was smoking a pipe upon the stoep!
“Hullo, Quatermain,” he said in his pleasant, drawling voice, “here you
are, up to time. I have been making bets with these five gentlemen,”
and he nodded at a group of loungers on the stoep, “as to whether you
would or would not appear, I putting ten to one on you in drinks.
Therefore you must now consume five whiskies and sodas, which will save
them from consuming fifty and a subsequent appearance at the Police
Court.”
I laughed and said I would be their debtor to the extent of one, which
was duly produced.
After it was drunk Anscombe and I had a chat. He said that he had been
to India, shot, or shot at whatever game he meant to kill there,
visited his relations in England and thence proceeded to keep his
appointment with me in Africa. At Durban he had fitted himself out in a
regal way with two wagons, full teams, and some spare oxen, and trekked
to Pretoria where he had arrived a few days before. Now he was ready to
start for the Lydenburg district and look for those buffalo.
“But,” I said, “the buffalo probably long ago departed. Also there has
been a war with Sekukuni, the Basuto chief who rules all that country,
which remains undecided, although I believe some kind of a peace has
been patched up. This may make hunting in this neighborhood dangerous.
Why not try some other ground, to the north of the Transvaal, for
instance?”
“Quatermain,” he answered, “I have come all the way from England, I
will not say to kill, but to try to kill buffalo in the Lydenburg
district, with you if possible, if not, without you, and thither I am
going. If you think it unsafe to accompany me, don’t come; I will get
on as best I can alone, or with some other skilled person if I can find
one.”
“If you put it like that I shall certainly come,” I replied, “with the
proviso that should the buffalo prove to be non-existent or the pursuit
of them impossible, we either give up the trip, or go somewhere else,
perhaps to the country at the back of Delagoa Bay.”
“Agreed,” he said; after which we discussed terms, he paying me my
salary in advance.
On further consideration we determined, as two were quite unnecessary
for a trip of the sort, to leave one of my wagons and half the cattle
in charge of a very respectable man, a farmer who lived about five
miles from Pretoria just over the pass near to the famous Wonder-boom
tree which is one of the sights of the place. Should we need this wagon
it could always be sent for; or, if we found the Lydenburg
hunting-ground, which he was so set upon visiting, unproductive or
impossible, we could return to Pretoria over the high-veld and pick it
up before proceeding elsewhere.
These arrangements took us a couple of days or so. On the third we
started, without seeing you, my friend, or any one else that I knew,
since just at that time every one seemed to be away from Pretoria. You,
I remember, had by now become the Master of the High Court and were,
they informed me at your office, absent on circuit.
The morning of our departure was particularly lovely and we trekked
away in the best of spirits, as so often happens to people who are
marching into trouble. Of our journey there is little to say as
everything went smoothly, so that we arrived at the edge of the
high-veld feeling as happy as the country which has no history is
reported to do. Our road led us past the little mining settlement of
Pilgrim’s Rest where a number of adventurous spirits, most of them
English, were engaged in washing for gold, a job at which I once took a
turn near this very place without any startling success. Of the
locality I need only say that the mountainous scenery is among the most
beautiful, the hills are the steepest and the roads are, or were, the
worst that I have ever travelled over in a wagon.
However, “going softly” as the natives say, we negotiated them without
accident and, leaving Pilgrim’s Rest behind us, began to descend
towards the low-veld where I was informed a herd of buffalo could still
be found, since, owing to the war with Sekukuni, no one had shot at
them of late. This war had been suspended for a while, and the
Land-drost at Pilgrim’s Rest told me he thought it would be safe to
hunt on the borders of that Chief’s country, though he should not care
to do so himself.
Game of the smaller sort began to be plentiful about here, so not more
than a dozen miles from Pilgrim’s Rest we outspanned early in the
afternoon to try to get a blue wildebeeste or two, for I had seen the
spoor of these creatures in a patch of soft ground, or failing them
some other buck. Accordingly, leaving the wagon by a charming stream
that wound and gurgled over a bed of granite, we mounted our salted
horses, which were part of Anscombe’s outfit, and set forth rejoicing.
Riding through the scattered thorns and following the spoor where I
could, within half an hour we came to a little glade. There, not fifty
yards away, I caught sight of a single blue wildebeeste bull standing
in the shadow of the trees on the further side of the glade, and
pointed out the ugly beast, for it is the most grotesque of all the
antelopes, to Anscombe.
“Off you get,” I whispered. “It’s a lovely shot, you can’t miss it.”
“Oh, can’t I!” replied Anscombe. “Do you shoot.”
I refused, so he dismounted, giving me his horse to hold, and kneeling
down solemnly and slowly covered the bull. Bang went his rifle, and I
saw a bough about a yard above the wildebeeste fall on to its back. Off
it went like lightning, whereon Anscombe let drive with the left barrel
of the Express, almost at hazard as it seemed to me, and by some chance
hit it above the near fore-knee, breaking its leg.
“That was a good shot,” he cried, jumping on to his horse.
“Excellent,” I answered. “But what are you going to do?”
“Catch it. It is cruel to leave a wounded animal,” and off he started.
Of course I had to follow, but the ensuing ride remains among the more
painful of my hunting memories. We tore through thorn trees that
scratched my face and damaged my clothes; we struck a patch of antbear
holes, into one of which my horse fell so that my stomach bumped
against its head; we slithered down granite koppies, and this was the
worst of it, at the end of each chapter, so to speak, always caught
sight of that accursed bull which I fondly hoped would have vanished
into space. At length after half an hour or so of this game we reached
a stretch of open, rolling ground, and there not fifty yards ahead of
us was the animal still going like a hare, though how it could do so on
three legs I am sure I do not know. We coursed it like greyhounds, till
at last Anscombe, whose horse was the faster, came alongside of the
exhausted creature, whereon it turned suddenly and charged.
Anscombe held out his rifle in his right hand and pulled the trigger,
which, as he had forgotten to reload it, was a mere theatrical
performance. Next second there was such a mix-up that for a while I
could not distinguish which was Anscombe, which was the wildebeeste,
and which the horse. They all seemed to be going round and round in a
cloud of dust. When things settled themselves a little I discovered the
horse rolling on the ground, Anscombe on his back with his hands up in
an attitude of prayer and the wildebeeste trying to make up its mind
which of them it should finish first. I settled the poor thing’s doubts
by shooting it through the heart, which I flatter myself was rather
clever of me under the circumstances. Then I dismounted to examine
Anscombe, who, I presumed, was done for. Not a bit of it. There he sat
upon the ground blowing like a blacksmith’s bellows and panting out—
“What a glorious gallop. I finished it very well, didn’t I? You
couldn’t have made a better shot yourself.”
“Yes,” I answered, “you finished it very well as you will find out if
you will take the trouble to open your rifle and count your cartridges.
I may add that if we are going to hunt together I hope you will never
lead me such a fool’s chase again.”
He rose, opened the rifle and saw that it was empty, for although he
had never re-loaded he had thrown out the two cartridges which he had
discharged in the glen.
“By Jingo,” he said, “you must have shot it, though I could have sworn
that it was I. Quatermain, has it ever struck you what a strange thing
is the human imagination?”
“Drat the human imagination,” I answered, wiping away the blood that
was trickling into my eye from a thorn scratch. “Let’s look at your
horse. If it is lamed you will have to ride Imagination back to the
wagon which must be six miles away, that is if we can find it before
dark.”
Sighing out something about a painfully practical mind, he obeyed, and
when the beast was proved to be nothing more than blown and a little
bruised, made remarks as to the inadvisability of dwelling on future
evil events, which I reminded him had already been better summed up in
the New Testament.
After this we contemplated the carcase of the wildebeeste which it
seemed a pity to leave to rot. Just then Anscombe, who had moved a few
yards to the right out of the shadow of an obstructing tree, exclaimed—
“I say, Quatermain, come here and tell me if I have been knocked silly,
or if I really see a quite uncommon kind of house built in ancient
Greek style set in a divine landscape.”
“Temple to Diana, I expect,” I remarked as I joined him on the further
side of the tree.
I looked and rubbed my eyes. There, about half a mile away, situated in
a bay of the sweeping hills and overlooking the measureless expanse of
bush-veld beneath, was a remarkable house, at least for those days and
that part of Africa. To begin with the situation was superb. It stood
on a green and swelling mound behind which was a wooded kloof where ran
a stream that at last precipitated itself in a waterfall over a great
cliff. Then in front was that glorious view of the bush-veld, at which
a man might look for a lifetime and not grow tired, stretching away to
the Oliphant’s river and melting at last into the dim line of the
horizon.
The house itself also, although not large, was of a kind new to me. It
was deep, but narrow fronted, and before it were four columns that
carried the roof which projected so as to form a wide verandah.
Moreover it seemed to be built of marble which glistened like snow in
the setting sun. In short in that lonely wilderness, at any rate from
this distance, it did look like the deserted shrine of some forgotten
god.
“Well, I’m bothered!” I said.
“So am I,” answered Anscombe, “to know the name of the Lydenburg
district architect whom I should like to employ; though I suspect it is
the surroundings that make the place look so beautiful. Hullo! here
comes somebody, but he doesn’t look like an architect; he looks like a
wicked baronet disguised as a Boer.”
True enough, round a clump of bush appeared an unusual looking person,
mounted on a very good horse. He was tall, thin and old, at least he
had a long white beard which suggested age, although his figure, so far
as it could be seen beneath his rough clothes, seemed vigorous. His
face was clean cut and handsome, with a rather hooked nose, and his
eyes were grey, but as I saw when he came up to us, somewhat bloodshot
at the corners. His general aspect was refined and benevolent, and as
soon as he opened his mouth I perceived that he was a person of gentle
breeding.
And yet there was something about him, something in his atmosphere, so
to speak, that I did not like. Before we parted that evening I felt
sure that in one way or another he was a wrong-doer, not straight; also
that he had a violent temper.
He rode up to us and asked in a pleasant voice, although the manner of
his question, which was put in bad Dutch, was not pleasant,
“Who gave you leave to shoot on our land?”
“I did not know that any leave was required; it is not customary in
these parts,” I answered politely in English. “Moreover, this buck was
wounded miles away.”
“Oh!” he exclaimed in the same tongue, “that makes a difference, though
I expect it was still on our land, for we have a lot; it is cheap about
here.” Then after studying a little, he added apologetically, “You
mustn’t think me strange, but the fact is my daughter hates things to
be killed near the house, which is why there’s so much game about.”
“Then pray make her our apologies,” said Anscombe, “and say that it
shall not happen again.”
He stroked his long beard and looked at us, for by now he had
dismounted, then said—
“Might I ask you gentlemen your names?”
“Certainly,” I replied. “I am Allan Quatermain and my friend is the
Hon. Maurice Anscombe.”
He started and said—
“Of Allan Quatermain of course I have heard. The natives told me that
you were trekking to those parts; and if you, sir, are one of Lord
Mountford’s sons, oddly enough I think I must have known your father in
my youth. Indeed I served with him in the Guards.”
“How very strange,” said Anscombe. “He’s dead now and my brother is
Lord Mountford. Do you like life here better than that in the Guards? I
am sure I should.”
“Both of them have their advantages,” he answered evasively, “of which,
if, as I think, you are also a soldier, you can judge for yourself. But
won’t you come up to the house? My daughter Heda is away, and my
partner Mr. Rodd” (as he mentioned this name I saw a blue vein, which
showed above his cheek bone, swell as though under pressure of some
secret emotion) “is a retiring sort of a man—indeed some might think
him sulky until they came to know him. Still, we can make you
comfortable and even give you a decent bottle of wine.”
“No, thank you very much,” I answered, “we must get back to the wagon
or our servants will think that we have come to grief. Perhaps you will
accept the wildebeeste if it is of any use to you.”
“Very well,” he said in a voice that suggested regret struggling with
relief. To the buck he made no allusion, perhaps because he considered
that it was already his own property. “Do you know your way? I believe
your wagon is camped out there to the east by what we call the Granite
stream. If you follow this Kaffir path,” and he pointed to a track near
by, “it will take you quite close.”
“Where does the path run to?” I asked. “There are no kraals about, are
there?”
“Oh! to the Temple, as my daughter calls our house. My partner and I
are labour agents, we recruit natives for the Kimberley Mines,” he said
in explanation, adding, “Where do you propose to shoot?”
I told him.
“Isn’t that rather a risky district?” he said. “I think that Sekukuni
will soon be giving more trouble, although there is a truce between him
and the English. Still he might send a regiment to raid that way.”
I wondered how our friend knew so much of Sekukuni’s possible
intentions, but only answered that I was accustomed to deal with
natives and did not fear them.
“Ah!” he said, “well, you know your own business best. But if you
should get into any difficulty, make straight for this place. The
Basutos will not interfere with you here.”
Again I wondered why the Basutos should look upon this particular spot
as sacred, but thinking it wisest to ask no questions, I only answered—
“Thank you very much. We’ll bear your invitation in mind, Mr.—”
“Marnham.”
“Marnham,” I repeated after him. “Good-bye and many thanks for your
kindness.”
“One question,” broke in Anscombe, “if you will not think me rude. What
is the name of the architect who designed that most romantic-looking
house of yours which seems to be built of marble?”
“My daughter designed it, or at least I think she copied it from some
old drawing of a ruin. Also it _is_ marble; there’s a whole hill of the
stuff not a hundred yards from the door, so it was cheaper to use than
anything else. I hope you will come and see it on your way back, though
it is not as fine as it appears from a distance. It would be very
pleasant after all these years to talk to an English gentleman again.”
Then we parted, I rather offended because he did not seem to include me
in the description, he calling after us—
“Stick close to the path through the patch of big trees, for the ground
is rather swampy there and it’s getting dark.”
Presently we came to the place he mentioned where the timber, although
scattered, was quite large for South Africa, of the yellow-wood
species, and interspersed wherever the ground was dry with huge
euphorbias, of which the tall finger-like growths and sad grey
colouring looked unreal and ghostlike in the waning light. Following
the advice given to us, we rode in single file along the narrow path,
fearing lest otherwise we should tumble into some bog hole, until we
came to higher land covered with the scattered thorns of the country.
“Did that bush give you any particular impression?” asked Anscombe a
minute or two later.
“Yes,” I answered, “it gave me the impression that we might catch fever
there. See the mist that lies over it,” and turning in my saddle I
pointed with the rifle in my hand to what looked like a mass of cotton
wool over which, without permeating it, hung the last red glow of
sunset, producing a curious and indeed rather unearthly effect. “I
expect that thousands of years ago there was a lake yonder, which is
why trees grow so big in the rich soil.”
“You are curiously mundane, Quatermain,” he answered. “I ask you of
spiritual impressions and you dilate to me of geological formations and
the growth of timber. You felt nothing in the spiritual line?”
“I felt nothing except a chill,” I answered, for I was tired and
hungry. “What the devil are you driving at?”
“Have you got that flask of Hollands about you, Quatermain?”
“Oh! those are the spirits you are referring to,” I remarked with
sarcasm as I handed it to him.
He took a good pull and replied—
“Not at all, except in the sense that bad spirits require good spirits
to correct them, as the Bible teaches. To come to facts,” he added in a
changed voice, “I have never been in a place that depressed me more
than that thrice accursed patch of bush.”
“Why did it depress you?” I asked, studying him as well as I could in
the fading light. To tell the truth I feared lest he had knocked his
head when the wildebeeste upset him, and was suffering from delayed
concussion.
“Can’t tell you, Quatermain. I don’t look like a criminal, do I? Well,
I entered those trees feeling a fairly honest man, and I came out of
them feeling like a murderer. It was as though something terrible had
happened to me there; it was as though I had killed someone there.
Ugh!” and he shivered and took another pull at the Hollands.
“What bosh!” I said. “Besides, even if it were to come true, I am sorry
to say I’ve killed lots of men in the way of business and they don’t
bother me overmuch.”
“Did you ever kill one to win a woman?”
“Certainly not. Why, that would be murder. How can you ask me such a
thing? But I have killed several to win cattle,” I reflected aloud,
remembering my expedition with Saduko against the chief Bangu, and some
other incidents in my career.
“I appreciate the difference, Quatermain. If you kill for cows, it is
justifiable homicide; if you kill for women, it is murder.”
“Yes,” I replied, “that is how it seems to work out in Africa. You see,
women are higher in the scale of creation than cows, therefore crimes
committed for their sake are enormously greater than those committed
for cows, which just makes the difference between justifiable homicide
and murder.”
“Good lord! what an argument,” he exclaimed and relapsed into silence.
Had he been accustomed to natives and their ways he would have
understood the point much better than he did, though I admit it is
difficult to explain.
In due course we reached the wagon without further trouble. While we
were shielding our pipes after an excellent supper I asked Anscombe his
impressions of Mr. Marnham.
“Queer cove, I think,” he answered. “Been a gentleman, too, and still
keeps the manners, which isn’t strange if he is one of the Marnhams,
for they are a good family. I wonder he mentioned having served with my
father.”
“It slipped out of him. Men who live a lot alone are apt to be
surprised into saying things they regret afterwards, as I noticed he
did. But why do you wonder?”
“Because as it happens, although I have only just recalled it, my
father used to tell some story about a man named Marnham in his
regiment. I can’t remember the details, but it had to do with cards
when high stakes were being played for, and with the striking of a
superior officer in the quarrel that ensued, as a result of which the
striker was requested to send in his papers.”
“It may not have been the same man.”
“Perhaps not, for I believe that more than one Marnham served in that
regiment. But I remember my father saying, by way of excuse for the
person concerned, that he had a most ungovernable temper. I think he
added, that he left the country and took service in some army on the
Continent. I should rather like to clear the thing up.”
“It isn’t probable that you will, for even if you should ever meet this
Marnham again, I fancy you would find he held his tongue about his
acquaintance with your father.”
“I wonder what Miss Heda is like,” went on Anscombe after a pause. “I
am curious to see a girl who designs a house on the model of an ancient
ruin.”
“Well, you won’t, for she’s away somewhere. Besides we are looking for
buffalo, not girls, which is a good thing as they are less dangerous.”
I spoke thus decisively because I had taken a dislike to Mr. Marnham
and everything to do with him, and did not wish to encourage the idea
of further meetings.
“No, never, I suppose. And yet I feel as though I were certainly
destined to see that accursed yellow-wood swamp again.”
“Nonsense,” I replied as I rose to turn in. Ah! if I had but known!