King Solomon's Mines
[4] Eu José da Silvestra que estou morrendo de fome ná pequena cova
onde não ha neve ao lado norte do bico mais ao sul das duas montanhas
que chamei seio de Sheba; escrevo isto no anno 1590; escrevo isto com
um pedaço d’ôsso n’ um farrapo de minha roupa e com sangue meu por
tinta; se o meu escravo dér com isto quando venha ao levar para
Lourenzo Marquez, que o meu amigo ———— leve a cousa ao conhecimento d’
El Rei, para que possa mandar um exercito que, se desfiler pelo
deserto e pelas montonhas e mesmo sobrepujar os bravos Kukuanes e suas
artes diabolicas, pelo que se deviam trazer muitos padres Far o Rei
mais rico depois de Salomão. Com meus proprios olhos vé os di amantes
sem conto guardados nas camaras do thesouro de Salomão a traz da morte
branca, mas pela traição de Gagoal a feiticeira achadora, nada poderia
levar, e apenas a minha vida. Quem vier siga o mappa e trepe pela neve
de Sheba peito à esquerda até chegar ao bica, do lado norte do qual
està a grande estrada do Solomão por elle feita, donde ha tres dias de
jornada até ao Palacio do Rei. Mate Gagoal. Reze por minha alma.
Adeos.
JOSÉ DA SILVESTRA.
When I had finished reading the above, and shown the copy of the map,
drawn by the dying hand of the old Dom with his blood for ink, there
followed a silence of astonishment.
“Well,” said Captain Good, “I have been round the world twice, and put
in at most ports, but may I be hung for a mutineer if ever I heard a
yarn like this out of a story book, or in it either, for the matter of
that.”
“It’s a queer tale, Mr. Quatermain,” said Sir Henry. “I suppose you are
not hoaxing us? It is, I know, sometimes thought allowable to take in a
greenhorn.”
“If you think that, Sir Henry,” I said, much put out, and pocketing my
paper—for I do not like to be thought one of those silly fellows who
consider it witty to tell lies, and who are for ever boasting to
newcomers of extraordinary hunting adventures which never happened—“if
you think that, why, there is an end to the matter,” and I rose to go.
Sir Henry laid his large hand upon my shoulder. “Sit down, Mr.
Quatermain,” he said, “I beg your pardon; I see very well you do not
wish to deceive us, but the story sounded so strange that I could
hardly believe it.”
“You shall see the original map and writing when we reach Durban,” I
answered, somewhat mollified, for really when I came to consider the
question it was scarcely wonderful that he should doubt my good faith.
“But,” I went on, “I have not told you about your brother. I knew the
man Jim who was with him. He was a Bechuana by birth, a good hunter,
and for a native a very clever man. That morning on which Mr. Neville
was starting I saw Jim standing by my wagon and cutting up tobacco on
the disselboom.
“‘Jim,’ said I, ‘where are you off to this trip? It is elephants?’
“‘No, Baas,’ he answered, ‘we are after something worth much more than
ivory.’
“‘And what might that be?’ I said, for I was curious. ‘Is it gold?’
“‘No, Baas, something worth more than gold,’ and he grinned.
“I asked no more questions, for I did not like to lower my dignity by
seeming inquisitive, but I was puzzled. Presently Jim finished cutting
his tobacco.
“‘Baas,’ said he.
“I took no notice.
“‘Baas,’ said he again.
“‘Eh, boy, what is it?’ I asked.
“‘Baas, we are going after diamonds.’
“‘Diamonds! why, then, you are steering in the wrong direction; you
should head for the Fields.’
“‘Baas, have you ever heard of Suliman’s Berg?’—that is, Solomon’s
Mountains, Sir Henry.
“‘Ay!’
“‘Have you ever heard of the diamonds there?’
“‘I have heard a foolish story, Jim.’
“‘It is no story, Baas. Once I knew a woman who came from there, and
reached Natal with her child, she told me:—she is dead now.’
“‘Your master will feed the aasvögels’—that is, vultures—‘Jim, if he
tries to reach Suliman’s country, and so will you if they can get any
pickings off your worthless old carcass,’ said I.
“He grinned. ‘Mayhap, Baas. Man must die; I’d rather like to try a new
country myself; the elephants are getting worked out about here.’
“‘Ah! my boy,’ I said, ‘you wait till the “pale old man” gets a grip of
your yellow throat, and then we shall hear what sort of a tune you
sing.’
“Half an hour after that I saw Neville’s wagon move off. Presently Jim
came back running. ‘Good-bye, Baas,’ he said. ‘I didn’t like to start
without bidding you good-bye, for I daresay you are right, and that we
shall never trek south again.’
“‘Is your master really going to Suliman’s Berg, Jim, or are you
lying?’
“‘No,’ he answered, ‘he is going. He told me he was bound to make his
fortune somehow, or try to; so he might as well have a fling for the
diamonds.’
“‘Oh!’ I said; ‘wait a bit, Jim; will you take a note to your master,
Jim, and promise not to give it to him till you reach Inyati?’ which
was some hundred miles off.
“‘Yes, Baas.’
“So I took a scrap of paper, and wrote on it, ‘Let him who comes . . .
climb the snow of Sheba’s left breast, till he reaches the nipple, on
the north side of which is Solomon’s great road.’
“‘Now, Jim,’ I said, ‘when you give this to your master, tell him he
had better follow the advice on it implicitly. You are not to give it
to him now, because I don’t want him back asking me questions which I
won’t answer. Now be off, you idle fellow, the wagon is nearly out of
sight.’
“Jim took the note and went, and that is all I know about your brother,
Sir Henry; but I am much afraid—”
“Mr. Quatermain,” said Sir Henry, “I am going to look for my brother; I
am going to trace him to Suliman’s Mountains, and over them if
necessary, till I find him, or until I know that he is dead. Will you
come with me?”
I am, as I think I have said, a cautious man, indeed a timid one, and
this suggestion frightened me. It seemed to me that to undertake such a
journey would be to go to certain death, and putting other
considerations aside, as I had a son to support, I could not afford to
die just then.
“No, thank you, Sir Henry, I think I had rather not,” I answered. “I am
too old for wild-goose chases of that sort, and we should only end up
like my poor friend Silvestre. I have a son dependent on me, so I
cannot afford to risk my life foolishly.”
Both Sir Henry and Captain Good looked very disappointed.
“Mr. Quatermain,” said the former, “I am well off, and I am bent upon
this business. You may put the remuneration for your services at
whatever figure you like in reason, and it shall be paid over to you
before we start. Moreover, I will arrange in the event of anything
untoward happening to us or to you, that your son shall be suitably
provided for. You will see from this offer how necessary I think your
presence. Also if by chance we should reach this place, and find
diamonds, they shall belong to you and Good equally. I do not want
them. But of course that promise is worth nothing at all, though the
same thing would apply to any ivory we might get. You may pretty well
make your own terms with me, Mr. Quatermain; and of course I shall pay
all expenses.”
“Sir Henry,” said I, “this is the most liberal proposal I ever had, and
one not to be sneezed at by a poor hunter and trader. But the job is
the biggest I have come across, and I must take time to think it over.
I will give you my answer before we get to Durban.”
“Very good,” answered Sir Henry.
Then I said good-night and turned in, and dreamt about poor long-dead
Silvestre and the diamonds.
CHAPTER III.
UMBOPA ENTERS OUR SERVICE
It takes from four to five days, according to the speed of the vessel
and the state of the weather, to run up from the Cape to Durban.
Sometimes, if the landing is bad at East London, where they have not
yet made that wonderful harbour they talk so much of, and sink such a
mint of money in, a ship is delayed for twenty-four hours before the
cargo boats can get out to take off the goods. But on this occasion we
had not to wait at all, for there were no breakers on the Bar to speak
of, and the tugs came out at once with the long strings of ugly
flat-bottomed boats behind them, into which the packages were bundled
with a crash. It did not matter what they might be, over they went
slap-bang; whether they contained china or woollen goods they met with
the same treatment. I saw one case holding four dozen of champagne
smashed all to bits, and there was the champagne fizzing and boiling
about in the bottom of the dirty cargo boat. It was a wicked waste, and
evidently so the Kafirs in the boat thought, for they found a couple of
unbroken bottles, and knocking off the necks drank the contents. But
they had not allowed for the expansion caused by the fizz in the wine,
and, feeling themselves swelling, rolled about in the bottom of the
boat, calling out that the good liquor was “tagati”—that is, bewitched.
I spoke to them from the vessel, and told them it was the white man’s
strongest medicine, and that they were as good as dead men. Those
Kafirs went to the shore in a very great fright, and I do not think
that they will touch champagne again.
Well, all the time that we were steaming up to Natal I was thinking
over Sir Henry Curtis’s offer. We did not speak any more on the subject
for a day or two, though I told them many hunting yarns, all true ones.
There is no need to tell lies about hunting, for so many curious things
happen within the knowledge of a man whose business it is to hunt; but
this is by the way.
At last, one beautiful evening in January, which is our hottest month,
we steamed past the coast of Natal, expecting to make Durban Point by
sunset. It is a lovely coast all along from East London, with its red
sandhills and wide sweeps of vivid green, dotted here and there with
Kafir kraals, and bordered by a ribbon of white surf, which spouts up
in pillars of foam where it hits the rocks. But just before you come to
Durban there is a peculiar richness about the landscape. There are the
sheer kloofs cut in the hills by the rushing rains of centuries, down
which the rivers sparkle; there is the deepest green of the bush,
growing as God planted it, and the other greens of the mealie gardens
and the sugar patches, while now and again a white house, smiling out
at the placid sea, puts a finish and gives an air of homeliness to the
scene. For to my mind, however beautiful a view may be, it requires the
presence of man to make it complete, but perhaps that is because I have
lived so much in the wilderness, and therefore know the value of
civilisation, though to be sure it drives away the game. The Garden of
Eden, no doubt, looked fair before man was, but I always think that it
must have been fairer when Eve adorned it.
To return, we had miscalculated a little, and the sun was well down
before we dropped anchor off the Point, and heard the gun which told
the good folks of Durban that the English Mail was in. It was too late
to think of getting over the Bar that night, so we went comfortably to
dinner, after seeing the Mails carried off in the life-boat.
When we came up again the moon was out, and shining so brightly over
sea and shore that she almost paled the quick, large flashes from the
lighthouse. From the shore floated sweet spicy odours that always
remind me of hymns and missionaries, and in the windows of the houses
on the Berea sparkled a hundred lights. From a large brig lying near
also came the music of the sailors as they worked at getting the anchor
up in order to be ready for the wind. Altogether it was a perfect
night, such a night as you sometimes get in Southern Africa, and it
threw a garment of peace over everybody as the moon threw a garment of