For the films of the same name, see King Solomon's Mines (film)
| King Solomon's Mines | |
|---|---|
King Solomon's Mines, 1st edition |
|
| Author(s) | H. Rider Haggard |
| Country | United Kingdom |
| Language | English |
| Series | Allan Quatermain Series |
| Genre(s) | Lost World |
| Publisher | Cassell & Company |
| Publication date | 1885 |
| Pages | 320 |
| Followed by | Allan Quatermain |
AUTHOR'S NOTE
The author ventures to take this opportunity
to thank his readers for the kind reception they have accorded to the
successive editions of this tale during the last twelve years. He hopes that in
its present form it will fall into the hands of an even wider public, and that
in years to come it may continue to afford amusement to those who are still
young enough at heart to love a story of treasure, war, and wild adventure.
Ditchingham, 11 March, 1898.
POST SCRIPTUM
Now, in 1907, on the occasion of the issue of
this edition, I can only add how glad I am that my romance should continue to
please so many readers. Imagination has been verified by fact; the King
Solomon's Mines I dreamed of have been discovered, and are putting out their
gold once more, and, according to the latest reports, their diamonds also; the
Kukuanas or, rather, the Matabele, have been tamed by the white man's bullets, but still there seem to be many who find
pleasure in these simple pages. That they may continue so to do, even to the
third and fourth generation, or perhaps longer still, would, I am sure, be the
hope of our old and departed friend, Allan Quatermain.
H. Rider Haggard. Ditchingham, 1907.
INTRODUCTION
Now that this book is printed, and about to
be given to the world, a sense of its shortcomings both in style and contents,
weighs very heavily upon me. As regards the latter, I can only say that it does
not pretend to be a full account of everything we did and saw. There are many
things connected with our journey into Kukuanaland that I should have liked to
dwell upon at length, which, as it is, have been scarcely alluded to. Amongst
these are the curious legends which I collected about the chain armour that
saved us from destruction in the great battle of Loo, and also about the
"Silent Ones" or Colossi at the mouth of the stalactite cave.
Again, if I had given way to my own impulses, I
should have wished to go into the differences, some of which are to my mind
very suggestive, between the Zulu and Kukuana dialects. Also a few pages might
have
been given up profitably to the consideration
of the indigenous flora and fauna of Kukuanaland.[1] Then there remains the most
interesting subject
—that,
as it is, has only been touched on incidentally—of the magnificent system of
military organisation in force in that country, which, in my opinion, is much superior to that inaugurated by
Chaka in Zululand, inasmuch as it permits of even more rapid mobilisation, and
does not necessitate the employment of the pernicious system of enforced
celibacy. Lastly, I have scarcely spoken of the domestic and family customs of
the Kukuanas, many of which are exceedingly quaint, or of their proficiency
in the art of smelting and welding metals.
This science they carry to considerable perfection, of which a good example is
to be seen in their "tollas," or heavy throwing knives, the backs of
these weapons being made of hammered iron, and the edges of beautiful steel
welded with great skill on to the iron frames. The fact of the matter is, I
thought, with Sir Henry Curtis and Captain Good, that the best plan would be to
tell my story in a plain, straightforward manner, and to leave these matters to
be dealt with subsequently in whatever way ultimately may appear to be
desirable. In the meanwhile I shall, of course, be delighted to give all
information in my power to anybody interested in such things.
And now it only remains for me to offer apologies
for my blunt way of writing. I can but say in excuse of it that I am more
accustomed to handle a rifle than a pen, and cannot make any pretence to the
grand literary flights and flourishes which I see in novels—for sometimes I
like to read a novel. I suppose they—the flights and flourishes—are desirable,
and I regret not being able to supply them; but at the same time I cannot help
thinking that simple things are always the most
impressive, and that books are easier to understand when they are written in
plain language, though perhaps I have no right to set up an opinion on such a
matter. "A sharp spear," runs the Kukuana saying, "needs no
polish"; and on the same principle I venture to hope that a true story,
however strange it may be, does not require to be decked out in fine words.
Allan Quatermain.
[1] I discovered eight varieties of antelope,
with which I was previously totally unacquainted, and many new species of
plants, for the most part of the bulbous tribe.—A.Q.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
I I
MEET SIR HENRY CURTIS
II THE
LEGEND OF SOLOMON'S MINES
III UMBOPA
ENTERS OUR SERVICE
IV AN
ELEPHANT HUNT
V OUR
MARCH INTO THE DESERT
VI WATER!
WATER!
VII SOLOMON'S
ROAD
VIII WE
ENTER KUKUANALAND
IX TWALA
THE KING
X THE
WITCH-HUNT
XI WE
GIVE A SIGN
XII BEFORE
THE BATTLE
XIII THE
ATTACK
XIV THE
LAST STAND OF THE GREYS
XV GOOD
FALLS SICK
XVI THE
PLACE OF DEATH
XVII SOLOMON'S
TREASURE CHAMBER
XVIII WE
ABANDON HOPE
XIX IGNOSI'S
FAREWELL
XX FOUND
KING SOLOMON'S MINES
CHAPTER I
I MEET SIR HENRY
CURTIS
It is a curious thing that at my age—fifty-five last birthday—I
should find myself taking up a pen to try to write a history. I wonder what
sort of a history it will be when I have finished it, if ever I come to the end
of the trip! I have done a good many things in my life, which seems a long one to me, owing to my having begun work so
young, perhaps. At an age when other boys are at school I was earning my living
as a trader in the old Colony. I have been trading, hunting, fighting, or
mining ever since. And yet it is only eight months ago that I made my pile. It
is a big pile now that I have got it—I don't yet know how big—but I do not
think I
would go through the last fifteen or sixteen months again for it; no,
not if I knew that I should come out safe at the end, pile and all. But then I
am a timid man, and dislike violence; moreover, I am almost sick of adventure.
I wonder why I am going to write this book: it is not in my line.
I am not a literary man, though very devoted to the Old Testament and also to
the "Ingoldsby Legends." Let me try to set down my reasons, just to
see if I have any.
First reason: Because Sir Henry Curtis and Captain John Good asked
me. Second reason: Because I am laid up here at Durban with the pain in my
left
leg. Ever since that confounded lion got hold of me I have been liable
to this trouble, and being rather bad just now, it makes me limp
more than ever. There must be some poison in a lion's teeth, otherwise how is
it that when your wounds are healed they break out again, generally, mark you,
at the same time of year that you got your mauling? It is a hard thing
when one has shot sixty-five lions or more, as I have in the course
of my life, that the sixty-sixth should chew your leg like a quid of tobacco.
It breaks the routine of the thing, and putting other considerations aside, I
am an orderly man and don't like that. This is by the way.
Third reason: Because I want my boy Harry, who is over there at the
hospital in London studying to become a doctor, to have something to
amuse him and keep him out of mischief for a week or so. Hospital
work must sometimes pall and grow rather dull, for even of cutting up dead
bodies there may come satiety, and as this history will not be dull, whatever
else it may be, it will put a little life into things for a day or two while
Harry is reading of our adventures.
Fourth reason and last: Because I am going to
tell the strangest story that I remember. It may seem a queer thing to say,
especially considering that there is no woman in it—except Foulata. Stop,
though! there is Gagaola, if she was a woman, and not a friend. But she was a
hundred at least, and therefore not marriageable, so I don't count her. At any
rate, I can safely say that there is not a petticoat in the whole history.
Well, I had better come to the yoke. It is a stiff place, and I feel
as though I were bogged up to the axle. But, "sutjes, sutjes,"
as the Boers say—I am sure I don't know how they spell it—softly does it. A
strong team will come through at last, that is, if they are not too poor. You
can never do anything with poor oxen. Now to make a start.
I, Allan Quatermain, of Durban, Natal, Gentleman, make oath and
say— That's how I headed my deposition before the magistrate about poor Khiva's
and Ventvögel's sad deaths; but somehow it doesn't seem quite the right way to
begin a book. And, besides, am I a gentleman? What is a
gentleman? I don't quite know, and yet I have had to
do with niggers—no, I will scratch out that word "niggers," for I do
not like it. I've known natives who are, and so you will say, Harry, my
boy, before you have
done with this tale, and I have known mean whites with lots of money
and fresh out from home, too, who are not.
At any rate, I was born a gentleman, though I have been nothing but
a
poor travelling trader and hunter all my life. Whether I have
remained so I known not, you must judge of that. Heaven knows I've tried. I
have killed many men in my time, yet I have never slain wantonly or stained my
hand in innocent blood, but only in self-defence. The Almighty gave us our
lives, and I suppose He meant us to defend them, at least I have always acted
on that, and I hope it will not be brought up against me when my clock strikes.
There, there, it is a cruel and a wicked world, and for a timid man I have been
mixed up in a great deal of fighting. I cannot tell the rights of it, but at
any rate I have never stolen, though once I cheated a Kafir out of a herd of
cattle. But then he had done me a dirty turn, and it has troubled me ever since
into the bargain.
Well, it is eighteen months or so ago since first I met Sir Henry
Curtis and Captain Good. It was in this way. I had been up elephant hunting
beyond Bamangwato, and had met with bad luck. Everything went wrong that
trip, and to top up with I got the fever badly. So soon as I was well
enough I trekked down to the Diamond Fields, sold such ivory as I had, together
with my wagon and oxen, discharged my hunters, and took the post-cart to the
Cape. After spending a week in Cape Town, finding that they overcharged me at
the hotel, and having seen everything there was to see, including the botanical
gardens, which seem to me likely to confer a great benefit on the country, and
the new Houses of Parliament, which I expect will do nothing of the sort, I
determined to go back to Natal by the Dunkeld, then lying at the docks
waiting for the Edinburgh Castle due in from England. I took my berth
and went aboard, and that afternoon the Natal
passengers from the Edinburgh Castle transhipped, and we weighed
and put to sea
Among these passengers who came on board were two who excited my
curiosity. One, a gentleman of about thirty, was perhaps the biggest- chested
and longest-armed man I ever saw. He had yellow hair, a thick yellow beard,
clear-cut features, and large grey eyes set deep in his head. I never saw a
finer-looking man, and somehow he reminded me of an ancient Dane. Not that I
know much of ancient Danes, though I knew a modern Dane who did me out of ten
pounds; but I remember once seeing
a picture of some of those gentry, who, I take it, were a kind of
white Zulus. They were drinking out of big horns, and their long hair hung down
their backs. As I looked at my friend standing there by the
companion-ladder, I thought that if he only let his grow a
little, put one of those chain shirts on to his great shoulders, and took hold
of a battle-axe and a horn mug, he might have sat as a model for that picture.
And by the way it is a curious thing, and just shows how the blood will out, I
discovered afterwards that Sir Henry Curtis, for that was the big man's name,
is of Danish blood.[1] He also reminded me strongly of somebody else, but at
the time I could not remember who it was.
The other man, who stood talking to Sir Henry, was stout and dark,
and of quite a different cut. I suspected at once that he was a naval officer;
I don't know why, but it is difficult to mistake a navy man. I have gone
shooting trips with several of them in the course of my life, and they have
always proved themselves the best and bravest and nicest fellows I ever met,
though sadly given, some of them, to the use of profane language. I asked a page or two back, what is a gentleman?
I'll answer the question now:
A Royal Naval officer is, in a general sort of
way, though of course there may be a black sheep among them here and there. I
fancy it is just the wide seas and the breath of God's winds that wash their
hearts and blow the bitterness out of their minds and make them what men ought
to be.
Well, to return, I proved right again; I ascertained that the dark
man was a naval officer, a lieutenant of thirty-one, who, after
seventeen years' service, had been turned out of her Majesty's employ with the
barren honour of a commander's rank, because it was impossible that he should
be promoted. This is what people who serve the Queen have to expect: to be shot
out into the cold world to find a living just when they are beginning really to
understand their work, and to reach the prime of life. I suppose they don't
mind it, but for my own part I had rather earn my
bread as a hunter. One's halfpence are as scarce perhaps, but you do
not get so many kicks.
The officer's name I found out—by referring to the passengers'
lists—was Good—Captain John Good. He was broad, of medium height, dark, stout,
and rather a curious man to look at. He was so very neat and so very clean-
shaved, and he always wore an eye-glass in his right eye. It seemed to
grow there, for it had no string, and he never took it out except to
wipe it. At first I thought he used to sleep in it, but afterwards I found that
this was a mistake. He put it in his trousers pocket when he went to bed,
together with his false teeth, of which he had two beautiful sets that, my own
being none of the best, have often caused me to break the tenth commandment.
But I am anticipating. Soon after we
had got under way evening closed in, and brought with it
very dirty weather. A keen breeze sprung up off land, and a kind of
aggravated Scotch mist soon drove everybody from the deck. As for the Dunkeld,
she is a flat-bottomed punt, and going up light as she was, she rolled very
heavily. It almost seemed as though she would go right over, but she never did.
It was quite impossible to walk about, so I stood near the engines where it was
warm, and amused myself with watching the pendulum, which was fixed opposite to
me, swinging slowly backwards and forwards as the vessel rolled, and marking
the angle she touched at each lurch.
"That pendulum's wrong; it is not properly
weighted," suddenly said a somewhat testy voice at my shoulder. Looking
round I saw the naval officer whom I had noticed when the passengers came
aboard.
"Indeed, now what
makes you think so?" I asked.
"Think so. I don't think at all. Why
there"—as she righted herself after a roll—"if the ship had really
rolled to the degree that thing pointed to, then she would never have rolled
again, that's all. But it is just like these merchant skippers, they are always
so confoundedly careless."
Just then the dinner-bell rang, and I was not sorry, for it is a
dreadful thing to have to listen to an officer of the Royal Navy when he gets
on to that subject. I only know one worse thing, and that is to hear a merchant
skipper express his candid opinion of officers of the Royal Navy.
Captain Good and I went
down to dinner together, and there we found Sir
Henry Curtis already seated. He and Captain Good were placed
together, and I sat opposite to them. The captain and I soon fell into talk
about shooting and what not; he asking me many questions, for he is very
inquisitive about all sorts of things, and I answering them as well as I could.
Presently he got on to elephants.
"Ah, sir," called out somebody who was
sitting near me, "you've reached the right man for that; Hunter Quatermain
should be able to tell you about elephants if anybody can."
Sir Henry, who had been sitting quite quiet listening to our talk,
started visibly.
"Excuse me, sir," he said, leaning forward
across the table, and speaking
in a low deep voice, a very suitable voice, it seemed to me, to
come out of those great lungs. "Excuse me, sir, but is your name Allan
Quatermain?"
I said that it was.
The big man made no further remark, but I heard him mutter
"fortunate" into his beard.
Presently dinner came to an end, and as we were
leaving the saloon Sir Henry strolled up and asked me if I would come into his
cabin to smoke a pipe. I accepted, and he led the way to the Dunkeld deck
cabin, and a very good cabin it is. It had been two cabins, but when Sir Garnet
Wolseley or one of those big swells went down the coast in the Dunkeld,
they knocked
away the partition and have never put it up again. There was a sofa
in the cabin, and a little table in front of it. Sir Henry sent the steward for
a bottle of whisky, and the three of us sat down and lit our pipes.
"Mr. Quatermain," said Sir Henry Curtis,
when the man had brought the whisky and lit the lamp, "the year before
last about this time, you were, I believe, at a place called Bamangwato, to the
north of the Transvaal."
"I was," I answered, rather surprised
that this gentleman should be so well acquainted with my movements, which were
not, so far as I was aware, considered of general interest.
"You were trading there, were you not?"
put in Captain Good, in his quick way.
"I was. I took up a wagon-load of goods,
made a camp outside the settlement, and stopped till I had sold them."
Sir Henry was sitting opposite to me in a Madeira chair, his arms
leaning on the table. He now looked up, fixing his large grey eyes full upon my
face. There was a curious anxiety in them, I thought.
"Did you happen to
meet a man called Neville there?"
"Oh, yes; he outspanned alongside of me for a
fortnight to rest his oxen before going on to the interior. I had a letter from
a lawyer a few months back, asking me if I knew what had become of him, which I
answered to the best of my ability
at the time."
"Yes," said Sir Henry, "your letter was
forwarded to me. You said in it that the gentleman called Neville left
Bamangwato at the beginning of
May in a wagon with a driver, a voorlooper, and a Kafir hunter
called Jim, announcing his intention of trekking if possible as far as Inyati,
the extreme trading post in the Matabele country, where he would sell his wagon
and proceed on foot. You also said that he did sell his wagon, for six months
afterwards you saw the wagon in the possession of a Portuguese trader, who told
you that he had bought it at Inyati from a
white man whose name he had forgotten, and that he believed the white
man with the native servant had started off for the interior on a shooting
trip."
"Yes."
Then came a pause.
"Mr. Quatermain," said Sir Henry
suddenly, "I suppose you know or can guess nothing more of the reasons of
my—of Mr. Neville's journey to the northward, or as to what point that journey
was directed?"
"I heard
something," I answered, and stopped. The subject was one which
I did not care to discuss.
Sir Henry and Captain Good looked at each other, and Captain Good
nodded.
"Mr. Quatermain," went on the former,
"I am going to tell you a story, and ask your advice, and perhaps your
assistance. The agent who forwarded
me your letter told me that I might rely on it implicitly, as you
were," he said, "well known and universally respected in Natal, and
especially noted for your discretion."
I bowed and drank some whisky and water to hide my confusion, for
I am a modest man—and Sir Henry went on.
"Mr. Neville was
my brother."
"Oh," I said, starting, for now I knew of whom
Sir Henry had reminded me when first I saw him. His brother was a much smaller
man and had a dark beard, but now that I thought of it, he possessed eyes of
the same shade of grey and with the same keen look in them: the features too
were not unlike.
"He was," went on Sir Henry, "my only
and younger brother, and till five years ago I do not suppose that we were ever
a month away from each other. But just about five years ago a misfortune befell
us, as sometimes does happen in families. We quarrelled bitterly, and I behaved
unjustly to my brother in my anger."
Here Captain Good nodded his head vigorously to himself. The ship
gave a big roll just then, so that the looking-glass, which was fixed opposite
us to starboard, was for a moment nearly over our heads, and as I was sitting
with my hands in my pockets and staring upwards, I could see him nodding like anything.
"As I daresay you know," went on Sir
Henry, "if a man dies intestate, and has no property but land, real
property it is called in England, it all descends to his eldest son. It so
happened that just at the time when we quarrelled our father died intestate. He
had put off making his will until it was too late. The result was that my
brother, who had not been brought up to any profession, was left without a
penny. Of course it would have been my duty to provide for him, but at the time
the quarrel between us was so bitter that I did not—to my shame I say it (and
he sighed deeply)—offer
to do anything. It was not that I grudged him justice, but I
waited for him to make advances, and he made none. I am sorry to trouble you
with all this, Mr. Quatermain, but I must to make things clear, eh, Good?"
"Quite so, quite so," said the captain.
"Mr. Quatermain will, I am sure, keep this history to himself."
"Of course," said I, for I rather pride
myself on my discretion, for which, as Sir Henry had heard, I have some repute.
"Well," went on Sir Henry, "my brother had a
few hundred pounds to his account at the time. Without saying anything to me he
drew out this paltry sum, and, having adopted the name of Neville, started off
for South Africa in the wild hope of making a fortune. This I learned
afterwards. Some
three years passed, and I heard nothing of my brother, though I wrote
several times. Doubtless the letters never reached him. But as time went on I
grew more and more troubled about him. I found out, Mr. Quatermain, that blood
is thicker than water."
"That's true," said I, thinking of my boy
Harry.
"I found out, Mr. Quatermain, that I would
have given half my fortune to know that my brother George, the only relation I
possess, was safe and well, and that I should see him again."
"But you never did, Curtis," jerked out
Captain Good, glancing at the big man's face.
"Well, Mr. Quatermain, as time went on I became
more and more anxious to find out if my brother was alive or dead, and if alive
to get him home again. I set enquiries on foot, and your letter was one of the
results. So far as it went it was satisfactory, for it showed that till 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."
[1] Mr. Quatermain's ideas about ancient Danes seem to be rather
confused; we have always understood that they were dark-haired people. Probably
he was thinking of Saxons.—Editor.
chapter 2, just be waiting ...
y'll never find it in cyber space, except in blog ^_^ ...
