H. Rider Haggard

Finished

Warsaw 2018

Contents

Dedication

Introduction

Chapter 1. Allan Quatermain Meets Anscombe

Chapter 2. Mr. Marnham

Chapter 3. The Hunters Hunted

Chapter 4. Doctor Rodd

Chapter 5. A Game Of Cards

Chapter 6. Miss Heda

Chapter 7. The Stoep

Chapter 8. Rodd’s Last Card

Chapter 9. Flight

Chapter 10. Nombe

Chapter 11. Zikali

Chapter 12. Trapped

Chapter 13. Cetewayo

Chapter 14. The Valley Of Bones

Chapter 15. The Great Council

Chapter 16. War

Chapter 17. Kaatje Brings News

Chapter 18. Isandhlwana

Chapter 19. Allan Awakes

Chapter 20. Heda’s Tale

Chapter 21. The King Visits Zikali

Chapter 22. The Madness Of Nombe

Chapter 23. The Kraal Jazi

DEDICATION

TO COLONEL THEODORE ROOSEVELT, SAGAMORE HILL, U.S.A.

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.

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 1

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.

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