King Solomon's Mines
lately George was alive, but it did not go far enough. So, to cut a
long story short, I made up my mind to come out and look for him
myself, and Captain Good was so kind as to come with me.”
“Yes,” said the captain; “nothing else to do, you see. Turned out by my
Lords of the Admiralty to starve on half pay. And now perhaps, sir, you
will tell us what you know or have heard of the gentleman called
Neville.”
CHAPTER II.
THE LEGEND OF SOLOMON’S MINES
“What was it that you heard about my brother’s journey at Bamangwato?”
asked Sir Henry, as I paused to fill my pipe before replying to Captain
Good.
“I heard this,” I answered, “and I have never mentioned it to a soul
till to-day. I heard that he was starting for Solomon’s Mines.”
“Solomon’s Mines?” ejaculated both my hearers at once. “Where are
they?”
“I don’t know,” I said; “I know where they are said to be. Once I saw
the peaks of the mountains that border them, but there were a hundred
and thirty miles of desert between me and them, and I am not aware that
any white man ever got across it save one. But perhaps the best thing I
can do is to tell you the legend of Solomon’s Mines as I know it, you
passing your word not to reveal anything I tell you without my
permission. Do you agree to that? I have my reasons for asking.”
Sir Henry nodded, and Captain Good replied, “Certainly, certainly.”
“Well,” I began, “as you may guess, generally speaking, elephant
hunters are a rough set of men, who do not trouble themselves with much
beyond the facts of life and the ways of Kafirs. But here and there you
meet a man who takes the trouble to collect traditions from the
natives, and tries to make out a little piece of the history of this
dark land. It was such a man as this who first told me the legend of
Solomon’s Mines, now a matter of nearly thirty years ago. That was when
I was on my first elephant hunt in the Matabele country. His name was
Evans, and he was killed the following year, poor fellow, by a wounded
buffalo, and lies buried near the Zambesi Falls. I was telling Evans
one night, I remember, of some wonderful workings I had found whilst
hunting koodoo and eland in what is now the Lydenburg district of the
Transvaal. I see they have come across these workings again lately in
prospecting for gold, but I knew of them years ago. There is a great
wide wagon road cut out of the solid rock, and leading to the mouth of
the working or gallery. Inside the mouth of this gallery are stacks of
gold quartz piled up ready for roasting, which shows that the workers,
whoever they were, must have left in a hurry. Also, about twenty paces
in, the gallery is built across, and a beautiful bit of masonry it is.”
“‘Ay,’ said Evans, ‘but I will spin you a queerer yarn than that’; and
he went on to tell me how he had found in the far interior a ruined
city, which he believed to be the Ophir of the Bible, and, by the way,
other more learned men have said the same long since poor Evans’s time.
I was, I remember, listening open-eared to all these wonders, for I was
young at the time, and this story of an ancient civilisation and of the
treasures which those old Jewish or Phoenician adventurers used to
extract from a country long since lapsed into the darkest barbarism
took a great hold upon my imagination, when suddenly he said to me,
‘Lad, did you ever hear of the Suliman Mountains up to the north-west
of the Mushakulumbwe country?’ I told him I never had. ‘Ah, well,’ he
said, ‘that is where Solomon really had his mines, his diamond mines, I
mean.’
“‘How do you know that?’ I asked.
“‘Know it! why, what is “Suliman” but a corruption of Solomon?[3]
Besides, an old Isanusi or witch doctoress up in the Manica country
told me all about it. She said that the people who lived across those
mountains were a “branch” of the Zulus, speaking a dialect of Zulu, but
finer and bigger men even; that there lived among them great wizards,
who had learnt their art from white men when “all the world was dark,”
and who had the secret of a wonderful mine of “bright stones.”’
[3] Suliman is the Arabic form of Solomon.—_Editor_.
“Well, I laughed at this story at the time, though it interested me,
for the Diamond Fields were not discovered then, but poor Evans went
off and was killed, and for twenty years I never thought any more of
the matter. However, just twenty years afterwards—and that is a long
time, gentlemen; an elephant hunter does not often live for twenty
years at his business—I heard something more definite about Suliman’s
Mountains and the country which lies beyond them. I was up beyond the
Manica country, at a place called Sitanda’s Kraal, and a miserable
place it was, for a man could get nothing to eat, and there was but
little game about. I had an attack of fever, and was in a bad way
generally, when one day a Portugee arrived with a single companion—a
half-breed. Now I know your low-class Delagoa Portugee well. There is
no greater devil unhung in a general way, battening as he does upon
human agony and flesh in the shape of slaves. But this was quite a
different type of man to the mean fellows whom I had been accustomed to
meet; indeed, in appearance he reminded me more of the polite doms I
have read about, for he was tall and thin, with large dark eyes and
curling grey mustachios. We talked together for a while, for he could
speak broken English, and I understood a little Portugee, and he told
me that his name was José Silvestre, and that he had a place near
Delagoa Bay. When he went on next day with his half-breed companion, he
said ‘Good-bye,’ taking off his hat quite in the old style.
“‘Good-bye, señor,’ he said; ‘if ever we meet again I shall be the
richest man in the world, and I will remember you.’ I laughed a
little—I was too weak to laugh much—and watched him strike out for the
great desert to the west, wondering if he was mad, or what he thought
he was going to find there.
“A week passed, and I got the better of my fever. One evening I was
sitting on the ground in front of the little tent I had with me,
chewing the last leg of a miserable fowl I had bought from a native for
a bit of cloth worth twenty fowls, and staring at the hot red sun
sinking down over the desert, when suddenly I saw a figure, apparently
that of a European, for it wore a coat, on the slope of the rising
ground opposite to me, about three hundred yards away. The figure crept
along on its hands and knees, then it got up and staggered forward a
few yards on its legs, only to fall and crawl again. Seeing that it
must be somebody in distress, I sent one of my hunters to help him, and
presently he arrived, and who do you suppose it turned out to be?”
“José Silvestre, of course,” said Captain Good.
“Yes, José Silvestre, or rather his skeleton and a little skin. His
face was a bright yellow with bilious fever, and his large dark eyes
stood nearly out of his head, for all the flesh had gone. There was
nothing but yellow parchment-like skin, white hair, and the gaunt bones
sticking up beneath.
“‘Water! for the sake of Christ, water!’ he moaned and I saw that his
lips were cracked, and his tongue, which protruded between them, was
swollen and blackish.
“I gave him water with a little milk in it, and he drank it in great
gulps, two quarts or so, without stopping. I would not let him have any
more. Then the fever took him again, and he fell down and began to rave
about Suliman’s Mountains, and the diamonds, and the desert. I carried
him into the tent and did what I could for him, which was little
enough; but I saw how it must end. About eleven o’clock he grew
quieter, and I lay down for a little rest and went to sleep. At dawn I
woke again, and in the half light saw Silvestre sitting up, a strange,
gaunt form, and gazing out towards the desert. Presently the first ray
of the sun shot right across the wide plain before us till it reached
the faraway crest of one of the tallest of the Suliman Mountains more
than a hundred miles away.
“‘There it is!’ cried the dying man in Portuguese, and pointing with
his long, thin arm, ‘but I shall never reach it, never. No one will
ever reach it!’
“Suddenly, he paused, and seemed to take a resolution. ‘Friend,’ he
said, turning towards me, ‘are you there? My eyes grow dark.’
“‘Yes,’ I said; ‘yes, lie down now, and rest.’
“‘Ay,’ he answered, ‘I shall rest soon, I have time to rest—all
eternity. Listen, I am dying! You have been good to me. I will give you
the writing. Perhaps you will get there if you can live to pass the
desert, which has killed my poor servant and me.’
“Then he groped in his shirt and brought out what I thought was a Boer
tobacco pouch made of the skin of the Swart-vet-pens or sable antelope.
It was fastened with a little strip of hide, what we call a rimpi, and
this he tried to loose, but could not. He handed it to me. ‘Untie it,’
he said. I did so, and extracted a bit of torn yellow linen on which
something was written in rusty letters. Inside this rag was a paper.
“Then he went on feebly, for he was growing weak: ‘The paper has all
that is on the linen. It took me years to read. Listen: my ancestor, a
political refugee from Lisbon, and one of the first Portuguese who
landed on these shores, wrote that when he was dying on those mountains
which no white foot ever pressed before or since. His name was José da
Silvestra, and he lived three hundred years ago. His slave, who waited
for him on this side of the mountains, found him dead, and brought the
writing home to Delagoa. It has been in the family ever since, but none
have cared to read it, till at last I did. And I have lost my life over
it, but another may succeed, and become the richest man in the
world—the richest man in the world. Only give it to no one, señor; go
yourself!’
“Then he began to wander again, and in an hour it was all over.
“God rest him! he died very quietly, and I buried him deep, with big
boulders on his breast; so I do not think that the jackals can have dug
him up. And then I came away.”
“Ay, but the document?” said Sir Henry, in a tone of deep interest.
“Yes, the document; what was in it?” added the captain.
“Well, gentlemen, if you like I will tell you. I have never showed it
to anybody yet except to a drunken old Portuguese trader who translated
it for me, and had forgotten all about it by the next morning. The
original rag is at my home in Durban, together with poor Dom José’s
translation, but I have the English rendering in my pocket-book, and a
facsimile of the map, if it can be called a map. Here it is.”
“I, José da Silvestra, who am now dying of hunger in the little cave
where no snow is on the north side of the nipple of the southernmost of
the two mountains I have named Sheba’s Breasts, write this in the year
1590 with a cleft bone upon a remnant of my raiment, my blood being the
ink. If my slave should find it when he comes, and should bring it to
Delagoa, let my friend (name illegible) bring the matter to the
knowledge of the king, that he may send an army which, if they live
through the desert and the mountains, and can overcome the brave
Kukuanes and their devilish arts, to which end many priests should be
brought, will make him the richest king since Solomon. With my own eyes
I have seen the countless diamonds stored in Solomon’s treasure chamber
behind the white Death; but through the treachery of Gagool the
witch-finder I might bring nought away, scarcely my life. Let him who
comes follow the map, and climb the snow of Sheba’s left breast till he
reaches the nipple, on the north side of which is the great road
Solomon made, from whence three days’ journey to the King’s Palace. Let
him kill Gagool. Pray for my soul. Farewell.
JOSÉ DA SILVESTRA.”[4]