FINISHED
by H. RIDER HAGGARD
DEDICATION
Ditchingham House, Norfolk,
May, 1917.
My dear Roosevelt,--
You are, I know, a lover of old Allan Quatermain, one who
understands and appreciates the views of life and the aspirations
that underlie and inform his manifold adventures.
Therefore, since such is your kind wish, in memory of certain
hours wherein both of us found true refreshment and companionship
amidst the terrible anxieties of the World's journey along that
bloodstained road by which alone, so it is decreed, the pure Peak
of Freedom must be scaled, I dedicate to you this tale telling of
the events and experiences of my youth.
Your sincere friend,
H. RIDER HAGGARD.
To COLONEL THEODORE ROOSEVELT,
Sagamore Hill, U.S.A.
INTRODUCTION
This book, although it can be read as a separate story, is the
third of the trilogy of which _Marie_ and _Child of Storm_ are
the first two parts. It narrates, through the mouth of Allan
Quatermain, the consummation of the vengeance of the wizard
Zikali, alias The Opener of Roads, or
"The-Thing-that-should-never-have-been-born," upon the royal Zulu
House of which Senzangacona was the founder and Cetewayo, our
enemy in the war of 1879, the last representative who ruled as a
king. Although, of course, much is added for the purposes of
romance, the main facts of history have been adhered to with some
faithfulness.
With these the author became acquainted a full generation ago,
Fortune having given him a part in the events that preceded the
Zulu War. Indeed he believes that with the exception of Colonel
Phillips, who, as a lieutenant, commanded the famous escort of
twenty-five policemen, he is now the last survivor of the party
who, under the leadership of Sir Theophilus Shepstone, or Sompesu
as the natives called him from the Zambesi to the Cape, were
concerned in the annexation of the Transvaal in 1877. Recently
also he has been called upon as a public servant to revisit South
Africa and took the opportunity to travel through Zululand, in
order to refresh his knowledge of its people, their customs,
their mysteries, and better to prepare himself for the writing of
this book. Here he stood by the fatal Mount of Isandhlawana
which, with some details of the battle, is described in these
pages, among the graves of many whom once he knew, Colonels
Durnford, Pulleine and others. Also he saw Ulundi's plain where
the traces of war still lie thick, and talked with an old Zulu
who fought in the attacking Impi until it crumbled away before
the fire of the Martinis and shells from the heavy guns. The
battle of the Wall of Sheet Iron, he called it, perhaps because
of the flashing fence of bayonets.
Lastly, in a mealie patch, he found the spot on which the corn
grows thin, where King Cetewayo breathed his last, poisoned
without a doubt, as he has known for many years. It is to be
seen at the Kraal, ominously named Jazi or, translated into
English, "Finished." The tragedy happened long ago, but even now
the quiet-faced Zulu who told the tale, looking about him as he
spoke, would not tell it all. "Yes, as a young man, I was there
at the time, but I do not remember, I do not know--the Inkoosi
Lundanda (i.e. this Chronicler, so named in past years by the
Zulus) stands on the very place where the king died--His bed was
on the left of the door-hole of the hut," and so forth, but no
certain word as to the exact reason of this sudden and violent
death or by whom it was caused. The name of that destroyer of a
king is for ever hid.
In this story the actual and immediate cause of the declaration
of war against the British Power is represented as the appearance
of the white goddess, or spirit of the Zulus, who is, or was,
called Nomkubulwana or Inkosazana-y-Zulu, i.e. the Princess of
Heaven. The exact circumstances which led to this decision are
not now ascertainable, though it is known that there was much
difference of opinion among the Zulu Indunas or great captains,
and like the writer, many believe that King Cetewayo was
personally averse to war against his old allies, the English.
The author's friend, Mr. J. Y. Gibson, at present the
representative of the Union in Zululand, writes in his admirable
history: "There was a good deal of discussion amongst the
assembled Zulu notables at Ulundi, but of how counsel was swayed
it is not possible now to obtain a reliable account."
The late Mr. F. B. Fynney, F.R.G.S., who also was his friend in
days bygone, and, with the exception of Sir Theophilus Shepstone,
who perhaps knew the Zulus and their language better than any
other official of his day, speaking of this fabled goddess wrote:
"I remember that just before the Zulu War Nomkubulwana appeared
revealing something or other which had a great effect throughout
the land."
The use made of this strange traditional Guardian Angel in the
following tale is not therefore an unsupported flight of fancy,
and the same may be said of many other incidents, such as the
account of the reading of the proclamation annexing the Transvaal
at Pretoria in 1877, which have been introduced to serve the
purposes of the romance.
Mameena, who haunts its pages, in a literal as well as figurative
sense, is the heroine of _Child of Storm,_ a book to which she
gave her own poetic title.
1916.
THE AUTHOR.
CHAPTER I
ALLAN QUATERMAIN MEETS ANSCOMBE
You, my friend, into whose hand, if you live, I hope these
scribblings of mine will pass one day, must well remember the
12th of April of the year 1877 at Pretoria. Sir Theophilus
Shepstone, or Sompesu, for I prefer to call him by his native
name, having investigated the affairs of the Transvaal for a
couple of months or so, had made up his mind to annex that
country to the British Crown. It so happened that I, Allan
Quatermain, had been on a shooting and trading expedition at the
back of the Lydenburg district where there was plenty of game to
be killed in those times. Hearing that great events were toward
I made up my mind, curiosity being one of my weaknesses, to come
round by Pretoria, which after all was not very far out of my
way, instead of striking straight back to Natal. As it chanced I
reached the town about eleven o'clock on this very morning of the
12th of April and, trekking to the Church Square, proceeded to
outspan there, as was usual in the Seventies. The place was full
of people, English and Dutch together, and I noted that the
former seemed very elated and were talking excitedly, while the
latter for the most part appeared to be sullen and depressed.
Presently I saw a man I knew, a tall, dark man, a very good
fellow and an excellent shot, named Robinson. By the way you
knew him also, for afterwards he was an officer in the Pretoria
Horse at the time of the Zulu war, the corps in which you held a
commission. I called to him and asked what was up.
"A good deal, Allan," he said as he shook my hand. "Indeed we
shall be lucky if all isn't up, or something like it, before the
day is over. Shepstone's Proclamation annexing the Transvaal is
going to be read presently."
I whistled and asked,
"How will our Boer friends take it? They don't look very
pleased."
"That's just what no one knows, Allan. Burgers the President is
squared, they say. He is to have a pension; also he thinks it
the only thing to be done. Most of the Hollanders up here don't
like it, but I doubt whether they will put out their hands
further than they can draw them back. The question is--what will
be the line of the Boers themselves? There are a lot of them
about, all armed, you see, and more outside the town."
"What do you think?"
"Can't tell you. Anything may happen. They may shoot Shepstone
and his staff and the twenty-five policemen, or they may just
grumble and go home. Probably they have no fixed plan."
"How about the English?"
"Oh! we are all crazy with joy, but of course there is no
organization and many have no arms. Also there are only a few of
us."
"Well," I answered, "I came here to look for excitement, life
having been dull for me of late, and it seems that I have found
it. Still I bet you those Dutchmen do nothing, except protest.
They are slim and know that the shooting of an unarmed mission
would bring England on their heads."
"Can't say, I am sure. They like Shepstone who understands them,
and the move is so bold that it takes their breath away. But as
the Kaffirs say, when a strong wind blows a small spark will make
the whole veld burn. It just depends upon whether the spark is
there. If an Englishman and a Boer began to fight for instance,
anything might happen. Goodbye, I have got a message to deliver.
If things go right we might dine at the European tonight, and if
they don't, goodness knows where we shall dine."
I nodded sagely and he departed. Then I went to my wagon to tell
the boys not to send the oxen off to graze at present, for I
feared lest they should be stolen if there were trouble, but to
keep them tied to the trek-tow. After this I put on the best
coat and hat I had, feeling that as an Englishman it was my duty
to look decent on such an occasion, washed, brushed my hair--with
me a ceremony without meaning, for it always sticks up--and
slipped a loaded Smith & Wesson revolver into my inner poacher
pocket. Then I started out to see the fun, and avoiding the
groups of surly-looking Boers, mingled with the crowd that I saw
was gathering in front of a long, low building with a broad
stoep, which I supposed, rightly, to be one of the Government
offices.
Presently I found myself standing by a tall, rather loosely-built
man whose face attracted me. It was clean-shaven and much
bronzed by the sun, but not in any way good-looking; the features
were too irregular and the nose was a trifle too long for good
looks. Still the impression it gave was pleasant and the steady
blue eyes had that twinkle in them which suggests humour. He
might have been thirty or thirty-five years of age, and
notwithstanding his rough dress that consisted mainly of a pair
of trousers held up by a belt to which hung a pistol, and a
common flannel shirt, for he wore no coat, I guessed at once that
he was English-born.
For a while neither of us said anything after the taciturn habit
of our people even on the veld, and indeed I was fully occupied
in listening to the truculent talk of a little party of mounted
Boers behind us. I put my pipe into my mouth and began to hunt
for my tobacco, taking the opportunity to show the hilt of my
revolver, so that these men might see that I was armed. It was
not to be found, I had left it in the wagon.
"If you smoke Boer tobacco," said the stranger, "I can help you,"
and I noted that the voice was as pleasant as the face, and knew
at once that the owner of it was a gentleman.
"Thank you, Sir. I never smoke anything else," I answered,
whereon he produced from his trousers pocket a pouch made of lion
skin of unusually dark colour.
"I never saw a lion as black as this, except once beyond Buluwayo
on the borders of Lobengula's country," I said by way of making
conversation.
"Curious," answered the stranger, "for that's where I shot the
brute a few months ago. I tried to keep the whole skin but the
white ants got at it."
"Been trading up there?" I asked.
"Nothing so useful," he said. "Just idling and shooting. Came
to this country because it was one of the very few I had never
seen, and have only been here a year. I think I have had about
enough of it, though. Can you tell me of any boats running from
Durban to India? I should like to see those wild sheep in
Kashmir."
I told him that I did not know for certain as I had never taken
any interest in India, being an African elephant-hunter and
trader, but I thought they did occasionally. Just then Robinson
passed by and called to me--
"They'll be here presently, Quatermain, but Sompesu isn't coming
himself."
"Does your name happen to be Allan Quatermain?" asked the
stranger. "If so I have heard plenty about you up in Lobengula's
country, and of your wonderful shooting."
"Yes," I replied, "but as for the shooting, natives always
exaggerate."
"They never exaggerated about mine," he said with a twinkle in
his eye. "Anyhow I am very glad to see you in the flesh, though
in the spirit you rather bored me because I heard too much of
you. Whenever I made a particularly, bad miss, my gun-bearer,
who at some time seems to have been yours, would say, 'Ah! if
only it had been the Inkosi Macumazahn, how different would have
been the end!' My name is Anscombe, Maurice Anscombe," he added
rather shyly. (Afterwards I discovered from a book of reference
that he was a younger son of Lord Mountford, one of the richest
peers in England.)
Then we both laughed and he said--
"Tell me, Mr. Quatermain, if you will, what those Boers are
saying behind us. I am sure it is something unpleasant, but as
the only Dutch I know is 'Guten Tag' and 'Vootsack' (Good-day and
Get out) that takes me no forwarder."
"It ought to," I answered, "for the substance of their talk is
that they object to be 'vootsacked' by the British Government as
represented by Sir Theophilus Shepstone. They are declaring that
they won the land 'with their blood' and want to keep their own
flag flying over it."
"A very natural sentiment," broke in Anscombe.
"They say that they wish to shoot all damned Englishmen,
especially Shepstone and his people, and that they would make a
beginning now were they not afraid that the damned English
Government, being angered, would send thousands of damned English
rooibatjes, that is, red-coats, and shoot _them_ out of evil
revenge."
"A very natural conclusion," laughed Anscombe again, "which I
should advise them to leave untested. Hush! Here comes the
show."
I looked and saw a body of blackcoated gentlemen with one officer
in the uniform of a Colonel of Engineers, advancing slowly. I
remember that it reminded me of a funeral procession following
the corpse of the Republic that had gone on ahead out of sight.
The procession arrived upon the stoep opposite to us and began to
sort itself out, whereon the English present raised a cheer and
the Boers behind us cursed audibly. In the middle appeared an
elderly gentleman with whiskers and a stoop, in whom I recognized
Mr. Osborn, known by the Kaffirs as Malimati, the Chief of the
Staff. By his side was a tall young fellow, yourself, my friend,
scarcely more than a lad then, carrying papers. The rest stood
to right and left in a formal line. _You_ gave a printed
document to Mr. Osborn who put on his glasses and began to read
in a low voice which few could hear, and I noticed that his hand
trembled. Presently he grew confused, lost his place, found it,
lost it again and came to a full stop.
"A nervous-natured man," remarked Mr. Anscombe. "Perhaps he
thinks that those gentlemen are going to shoot."
"That wouldn't trouble him," I answered, who knew him well. "His
fears are purely mental."
That was true since I know that this same Sir Melmoth Osborn as
he is now, as I have told in the book I called _Child of Storm_,
swam the Tugela alone to watch the battle of Indondakasuka raging
round him, and on another occasion killed two Kaffirs rushing at
him with a right and left shot without turning a hair. It was
reading this paper that paralyzed him, not any fear of what might
happen.
There followed a very awkward pause such as occurs when a man
breaks down in a speech. The members of the Staff looked at him
and at each other, then behold! you, my friend, grabbed the paper
from his hand and went on reading it in a loud clear voice.
"That young man has plenty of nerve," said Mr. Anscombe.
"Yes," I replied in a whisper. "Quite right though. Would have
been a bad omen if the thing had come to a stop."
Well, there were no more breakdowns, and at last the long
document was finished and the Transvaal annexed. The Britishers
began to cheer but stopped to listen to the formal protest of the
Boer Government, if it could be called a government when
everything had collapsed and the officials were being paid in
postage stamps. I can't remember whether this was read by
President Burgers himself or by the officer who was called State
Secretary. Anyway, it was read, after which there came an
awkward pause as though people were waiting to see something
happen. I looked round at the Boers who were muttering and
handling their rifles uneasily. Had they found a leader I really
think that some of the wilder spirits among them would have begun
to shoot, but none appeared and the crisis passed.
The crowd began to disperse, the English among them cheering and
throwing up their hats, the Dutch with very sullen faces. The
Commissioner's staff went away as it had come, back to the
building with blue gums in front of it, which afterwards became
Government House, that is all except you. You started across the
square alone with a bundle of printed proclamations in your hand
which evidently you had been charged to leave at the various
public offices.
"Let us follow him," I said to Mr. Anscombe. "He might get into
trouble and want a friend."
He nodded and we strolled after you unostentatiously. Sure
enough you nearly did get into trouble. In front of the first
office door to which you came, stood a group of Boers, two of
whom, big fellows, drew together with the evident intention of
barring your way.
"Mynheeren," you said, "I pray you to let me pass on the Queen's
business."
They took no heed except to draw closer together and laugh
insolently. Again you made your request and again they laughed.
Then I saw you lift your leg and deliberately stamp upon the foot
of one of the Boers. He drew back with an exclamation, and for a
moment I believed that he or his fellow was going to do something
violent. Perhaps they thought better of it, or perhaps they saw
us two Englishmen behind and noticed Anscombe's pistol. At any
rate you marched into the office triumphant and delivered your
document.
"Neatly done," said Mr. Anscombe.
"Rash," I said, shaking my head, "very rash. Well, he's young
and must be excused."
But from that moment I took a great liking to you, my friend,
perhaps because I wondered whether in your place I should have
been daredevil enough to act in the same way. For you see I am
English, and I like to see an Englishman hold his own against
odds and keep up the credit of the country. Although, of course,
I sympathized with the Boers who, through their own fault, were
losing their land without a blow struck. As you know well, for
you were living near Majuba at the time, plenty of blows were
struck afterwards, but of that business I cannot bear to write.
I wonder how it will all work out after I am dead and if I shall
ever learn what happens in the end.
Now I have only mentioned this business of the Annexation and the
part you played in it, because it was on that occasion that I
became acquainted with Anscombe. For you have nothing to do with
this story which is about the destruction of the Zulus, the
accomplishment of the vengeance of Zikali the wizard at the kraal
named Finished, and incidentally, the love affairs of two people
in which that old wizard took a hand, as I did to my sorrow.
It happened that Mr. Anscombe had ridden on ahead of his wagons
which could not arrive at Pretoria for a day or two, and as he
found it impossible to get accommodation at the European or
elsewhere, I offered to let him sleep in mine, or rather
alongside in a tent I had. He accepted and soon we became very
good friends. Before the day was as out I discovered that he had
served in a crack cavalry regiment, but resigned his commission
some years before. I asked him why.
"Well," he said, "I came into a good lot of money on my mother's
death and could not see a prospect of any active service. While
the regiment was abroad I liked the life well enough, but at home
it bored me. Too much society for my taste, and that sort of
thing. Also I wanted to travel; nothing else really amuses me."
"You will soon get tired of it," I answered, "and as you are well
off, marry some fine lady and settle down at home."
"Don't think so. I doubt if I should ever be happily married, I
want too much. One doesn't pick up an earthly angel with a
cast-iron constitution who adores you, which are the bare
necessities of marriage, under every bush." Here I laughed.
"Also," he added, the laughter going out of his eyes, "I have had
enough of fine ladies and their ways."
"Marriage is better than scrapes," I remarked sententiously.
"Quite so, but one might get them both together. No, I shall
never marry, although I suppose I ought as my brothers have no
children."
"Won't you, my friend," thought I to myself, "when the skin grows
again on your burnt fingers."
For I was sure they had been burnt, perhaps more than once. How,
I never learned, for which I am rather sorry for it interests me
to study burnt fingers, if they do not happen to be my own. Then
we changed the subject.
Anscombe's wagons were delayed for a day or two by a broken axle
or a bog hole, I forget which. So, as I had nothing particular
to do until the Natal post-cart left, we spent the time in
wandering about Pretoria, which did not take us long as it was
but a little dorp in those days, and chatting with all and
sundry. Also we went up to Government House as it was now
called, and left cards, or rather wrote our names in a book for
we had no cards, being told by one of the Staff whom we met that
we should do so. An hour later a note arrived asking us both to
dinner that night and telling us very nicely not to mind if we
had no dress things. Of course we had to go, Anscombe rigged up
in my second best clothes that did not fit him in the least, as
he was a much taller man than I am, and a black satin bow that he
had bought at Becket's Store together with a pair of shiny pumps.
I actually met you, my friend, for the first time that evening,
and in trouble too, though you may have forgotten the incident.
We had made a mistake about the time of dinner, and arriving half
an hour too soon, were shown into a long room that opened on to
the verandah. You were working there, being I believe a private
secretary at the time, copying some despatch; I think you said
that which gave an account of the Annexation. The room was lit
by a paraffin lamp behind you, for it was quite dark and the
window was open, or at any rate unshuttered. The gentleman who
showed us in, seeing that you were very busy, took us to the far
end of the room, where we stood talking in the shadow. Just then
a door opened opposite to that which led to the verandah, and
through it came His Excellency the Administrator, Sir Theophilus
Shepstone, a stout man of medium height with a very clever,
thoughtful face, as I have always thought, one of the greatest of
African statesmen. He did not see us, but he caught sight of you
and said testily--
"Are you mad?" To which you answered with a laugh--
"I hope not more than usual, Sir, but why?"
"Have I not told you always to let down the blinds after dark?
Yet there you sit with your head against the light, about the
best target for a bullet that could be imagined."
"I don't think the Boers would trouble to shoot me, Sir. If you
had been here I would have drawn the blinds and shut the shutters
too," you answered, laughing again.
"Go to dress or you will be late for dinner," he said still
rather sternly, and you went. But when you had gone and after we
had been announced to him, he smiled and added something which I
will not repeat to you even now. I think it was about what you
did on the Annexation day of which the story had come to him.
I mention this incident because whenever I think of Shepstone,
whom I had known off and on for years in the way that a hunter
knows a prominent Government official, it always recurs to my
mind, embodying as it does his caution and appreciation of danger
derived from long experience of the country, and the sternness he
sometimes affected which could never conceal his love towards his
friends. Oh! there was greatness in this man, although they did
call him an "African Talleyrand." If it had not been so would
every native from the Cape to the Zambesi have known and revered
his name, as perhaps that of no other white man has been revered?
But I must get on with my tale and leave historical discussions
to others more fitted to deal with them.
We had a very pleasant dinner that night, although I was so
ashamed of my clothes with smart uniforms and white ties all
about me, and Anscombe kept fidgeting his feet because he was
suffering agony from his new pumps which were a size too small.
Everybody was in the best of spirits, for from all directions
came the news that the Annexation was well received and that the
danger of any trouble had passed away. Ah! if we had only known
what the end of it would be!
It was on our way back to the wagon that I chanced to mention to
Anscombe that there was still a herd of buffalo within a few
days' trek of Lydenburg, of which I had shot two not a month
before.
"Are there, by Jove!" he said. "As it happens I never got a
buffalo; always I just missed them in one sense or another, and I
can't leave Africa with a pair of bought horns. Let's go there
and shoot some."
I shook my head and replied that I had been idling long enough
and must try to make some money, news at which he seemed very
disappointed.
"Look here," he said, "forgive me for mentioning it, but business
is business. If you'll come you shan't be a loser."
Again I shook my head, whereat he looked more disappointed than
before.
"Very well," he exclaimed, "then I must go alone. For kill a
buffalo I will; that is unless the buffalo kills me, in which
case my blood will be on your hands."
I don't know why, but at that moment there came into my mind a
conviction that if he did go alone a buffalo or something would
kill him and that then I should be sorry all my life.
"They are dangerous brutes, much worse than lions," I said.
"And yet you, who pretend to have a conscience, would expose me
to their rage unprotected and alone," he replied with a twinkle
in his eye which I could see even by moonlight." Oh! Quatermain,
how I have been mistaken in your character.
"Look here, Mr. Anscombe," I said, "it's no use. I cannot
possibly go on a shooting expedition with you just now. Only
to-day I have heard from Natal that my boy is not well and must
undergo an operation which will lay him up for quite six weeks,
and may be dangerous. So I must get down to Durban before it
takes place. After that I have a contract in Matabeleland whence
you have just come, to take charge of a trading store there for a
year; also perhaps to try to shoot a little ivory for myself. So
I am fully booked up till, let us say, October, 1878, that is for
about eighteen months, by which time I daresay I shall be dead."
"Eighteen months," replied this cool young man. "That will suit
me very well. I will go on to India as I intended, then home for
a bit and will meet you on the 1st of October, 1878, after which
we will proceed to the Lydenburg district and shoot those
buffalo, or if they have departed, other buffalo. Is it a
bargain?"
I stared at him, thinking that the Administrator's champagne had
got into his head.
"Nonsense," I exclaimed. "Who knows where you will be in
eighteen months? Why, by that time you will have forgotten all
about me."
"If I am alive and well, on the 1st of October, I878, I shall be
exactly where I am now, upon this very square in Pretoria, with a
wagon, or wagons, prepared for a hunting trip. But as not
unnaturally you have doubts upon that point, I am prepared to pay
forfeit if I fail, or even if circumstances cause you to fail."
Here he took a cheque-book from his letter-case and spread it out
on the little table in the tent, on which there were ink and a
pen, adding--
"Now, Mr. Quatermain, will it meet your views if I fill this up
for #250?"
"No," I answered; "taking everything into consideration the sum
is excessive. But if you do not mind facing the risks of my
non-appearance, to say nothing of your own, you may make it #50."
"You are very moderate in your demands," he said as he handed me
the cheque which I put in my pocket, reflecting that it would
just pay for my son's operation.
"And you are very foolish in your offers," I replied. "Tell me,
why do you make such crack-brained arrangements?"
"I don't quite know. Something in me seems to say that we
_shall_ make this expedition and that it will have a very
important effect upon my life. Mind you, it is to be to the
Lydenburg district and nowhere else. And now I am tired, so
let's turn in."
Next morning we parted and went our separate ways.
