CHAPTER IV.

ALPHONSE AND HIS ANNETTE

After dinner we thoroughly inspected all the outbuildings and grounds

of the station, which I consider the most successful as well as the

most beautiful place of the sort that I have seen in Africa. We then

returned to the veranda, where we found Umslopogaas taking advantage of

this favourable opportunity to clean all the rifles thoroughly. This

was the only _work_ that he ever did or was asked to do, for as a Zulu

chief it was beneath his dignity to work with his hands; but such as it

was he did it very well. It was a curious sight to see the great Zulu

sitting there upon the floor, his battleaxe resting against the wall

behind him, whilst his long aristocratic-looking hands were busily

employed, delicately and with the utmost care, cleaning the mechanism

of the breech-loaders. He had a name for each gun. One—a double

four-bore belonging to Sir Henry—was the Thunderer; another, my 500

Express, which had a peculiarly sharp report, was “the little one who

spoke like a whip”; the Winchester repeaters were “the women, who

talked so fast that you could not tell one word from another”; the six

Martinis were “the common people”; and so on with them all. It was very

curious to hear him addressing each gun as he cleaned it, as though it

were an individual, and in a vein of the quaintest humour. He did the

same with his battle-axe, which he seemed to look upon as an intimate

friend, and to which he would at times talk by the hour, going over all

his old adventures with it—and dreadful enough some of them were. By a

piece of grim humour, he had named this axe “Inkosi-kaas”, which is the

Zulu word for chieftainess. For a long while I could not make out why

he gave it such a name, and at last I asked him, when he informed me

that the axe was very evidently feminine, because of her womanly habit

of prying very deep into things, and that she was clearly a

chieftainess because all men fell down before her, struck dumb at the

sight of her beauty and power. In the same way he would consult

“Inkosi-kaas” if in any dilemma; and when I asked him why he did so, he

informed me it was because she must needs be wise, having “looked into

so many people’s brains”.

I took up the axe and closely examined this formidable weapon. It was,

as I have said, of the nature of a pole-axe. The haft, made out of an

enormous rhinoceros horn, was three feet three inches long, about an

inch and a quarter thick, and with a knob at the end as large as a

Maltese orange, left there to prevent the hand from slipping. This horn

haft, though so massive, was as flexible as cane, and practically

unbreakable; but, to make assurance doubly sure, it was whipped round

at intervals of a few inches with copper wire—all the parts where the

hands grip being thus treated. Just above where the haft entered the

head were scored a number of little nicks, each nick representing a man

killed in battle with the weapon. The axe itself was made of the most

beautiful steel, and apparently of European manufacture, though

Umslopogaas did not know where it came from, having taken it from the

hand of a chief he had killed in battle many years before. It was not

very heavy, the head weighing two and a half pounds, as nearly as I

could judge. The cutting part was slightly concave in shape—not convex,

as is generally the case with savage battle-axes—and sharp as a razor,

measuring five and three-quarter inches across the widest part. From

the back of the axe sprang a stout spike four inches long, for the last

two of which it was hollow, and shaped like a leather punch, with an

opening for anything forced into the hollow at the punch end to be

pushed out above—in fact, in this respect it exactly resembled a

butcher’s pole-axe. It was with this punch end, as we afterwards

discovered, that Umslopogaas usually struck when fighting, driving a

neat round hole in his adversary’s skull, and only using the broad

cutting edge for a circular sweep, or sometimes in a _mêlée_. I think

he considered the punch a neater and more sportsmanlike tool, and it

was from his habit of pecking at his enemy with it that he got his name

of “Woodpecker”. Certainly in his hands it was a terribly efficient

one.

Such was Umslopogaas’ axe, Inkosi-kaas, the most remarkable and fatal

hand-to-hand weapon that I ever saw, and one which he cherished as much

as his own life. It scarcely ever left his hand except when he was

eating, and then he always sat with it under his leg.

Just as I returned his axe to Umslopogaas, Miss Flossie came up and

took me off to see her collection of flowers, African liliums, and

blooming shrubs, some of which are very beautiful, many of the

varieties being quite unknown to me and also, I believe, to botanical

science. I asked her if she had ever seen or heard of the “Goya” lily,

which Central African explorers have told me they have occasionally met

with and whose wonderful loveliness has filled them with astonishment.

This lily, which the natives say blooms only once in ten years,

flourishes in the most arid soil. Compared to the size of the bloom,

the bulb is small, generally weighing about four pounds. As for the

flower itself (which I afterwards saw under circumstances likely to

impress its appearance fixedly in my mind), I know not how to describe

its beauty and splendour, or the indescribable sweetness of its

perfume. The flower—for it has only one bloom—rises from the crown of

the bulb on a thick fleshy and flat-sided stem, the specimen that I saw

measured fourteen inches in diameter, and is somewhat trumpet-shaped

like the bloom of an ordinary “longiflorum” set vertically. First there

is the green sheath, which in its early stage is not unlike that of a

water-lily, but which as the bloom opens splits into four portions and

curls back gracefully towards the stem. Then comes the bloom itself, a

single dazzling arch of white enclosing another cup of richest velvety

crimson, from the heart of which rises a golden-coloured pistil. I have

never seen anything to equal this bloom in beauty or fragrance, and as

I believe it is but little known, I take the liberty to describe it at

length. Looking at it for the first time I well remember that I

realised how even in a flower there dwells something of the majesty of

its Maker. To my great delight Miss Flossie told me that she knew the

flower well and had tried to grow it in her garden, but without

success, adding, however, that as it should be in bloom at this time of

the year she thought that she could procure me a specimen.

After that I fell to asking her if she was not lonely up here among all

these savage people and without any companions of her own age.

“Lonely?” she said. “Oh, indeed no! I am as happy as the day is long,

and besides I have my own companions. Why, I should hate to be buried

in a crowd of white girls all just like myself so that nobody could

tell the difference! Here,” she said, giving her head a little toss, “I

am _I;_ and every native for miles around knows the ‘Water-lily’,—for

that is what they call me—and is ready to do what I want, but in the

books that I have read about little girls in England it is not like

that. Everybody thinks them a trouble, and they have to do what their

schoolmistress likes. Oh! it would break my heart to be put in a cage

like that and not to be free—free as the air.”

“Would you not like to learn?” I asked.

“So I do learn. Father teaches me Latin and French and arithmetic.”

“And are you never afraid among all these wild men?”

“Afraid? Oh no! they never interfere with me. I think they believe that

I am ‘Ngai’ (of the Divinity) because I am so white and have fair hair.

And look here,” and diving her little hand into the bodice of her dress

she produced a double-barrelled nickel-plated Derringer, “I always

carry that loaded, and if anybody tried to touch me I should shoot him.

Once I shot a leopard that jumped upon my donkey as I was riding along.

It frightened me very much, but I shot it in the ear and it fell dead,

and I have its skin upon my bed. Look there!” she went on in an altered

voice, touching me on the arm and pointing to some far-away object, “I

said just now that I had companions; there is one of them.”

I looked, and for the first time there burst upon my sight the glory of

Mount Kenia. Hitherto the mountain had always been hidden in mist, but

now its radiant beauty was unveiled for many thousand feet, although

the base was still wrapped in vapour so that the lofty peak or pillar,

towering nearly twenty thousand feet into the sky, appeared to be a

fairy vision, hanging between earth and heaven, and based upon the

clouds. The solemn majesty and beauty of this white peak are together

beyond the power of my poor pen to describe. There it rose straight and

sheer—a glittering white glory, its crest piercing the very blue of

heaven. As I gazed at it with that little girl I felt my whole heart

lifted up with an indescribable emotion, and for a moment great and

wonderful thoughts seemed to break upon my mind, even as the arrows of

the setting sun were breaking upon Kenia’s snows. Mr Mackenzie’s

natives call the mountain the “Finger of God”, and to me it did seem

eloquent of immortal peace and of the pure high calm that surely lies

above this fevered world. Somewhere I had heard a line of poetry,

A thing of beauty is a joy for ever,

and now it came into my mind, and for the first time I thoroughly

understood what it meant. Base, indeed, would be the man who could look

upon that mighty snow-wreathed pile— that white old tombstone of the

years—and not feel his own utter insignificance, and, by whatever name

he calls Him, worship God in his heart. Such sights are like visions of

the spirit; they throw wide the windows of the chamber of our small

selfishness and let in a breath of that air that rushes round the

rolling spheres, and for a while illumine our darkness with a far-off

gleam of the white light which beats upon the Throne.

Yes, such things of beauty are indeed a joy for ever, and I can well

understand what little Flossie meant when she talked of Kenia as her

companion. As Umslopogaas, savage old Zulu that he was, said when I

pointed out to him the peak hanging in the glittering air: “A man might

look thereon for a thousand years and yet be hungry to see.” But he

gave rather another colour to his poetical idea when he added in a sort

of chant, and with a touch of that weird imagination for which the man

was remarkable, that when he was dead he should like his spirit to sit

upon that snow-clad peak for ever, and to rush down the steep white

sides in the breath of the whirlwind, or on the flash of the lightning,

and “slay, and slay, and slay”.

“Slay what, you old bloodhound?” I asked.

This rather puzzled him, but at length he answered—

“The other shadows.”

“So thou wouldst continue thy murdering even after death?” I said.

“I murder not,” he answered hotly; “I kill in fair fight. Man is born

to kill. He who kills not when his blood is hot is a woman, and no man.

The people who kill not are slaves. I say I kill in fair fight; and

when I am ‘in the shadow’, as you white men say, I hope to go on

killing in fair fight. May my shadow be accursed and chilled to the

bone for ever if it should fall to murdering like a bushman with his

poisoned arrows!” And he stalked away with much dignity, and left me

laughing.

Just then the spies whom our host had sent out in the morning to find

out if there were any traces of our Masai friends about, returned, and

reported that the country had been scoured for fifteen miles round

without a single Elmoran being seen, and that they believed that those

gentry had given up the pursuit and returned whence they came. Mr

Mackenzie gave a sigh of relief when he heard this, and so indeed did

we, for we had had quite enough of the Masai to last us for some time.

Indeed, the general opinion was that, finding we had reached the

mission station in safety, they had, knowing its strength, given up the

pursuit of us as a bad job. How ill-judged that view was the sequel

will show.

After the spies had gone, and Mrs Mackenzie and Flossie had retired for

the night, Alphonse, the little Frenchman, came out, and Sir Henry, who

is a very good French scholar, got him to tell us how he came to visit

Central Africa, which he did in a most extraordinary lingo, that for

the most part I shall not attempt to reproduce.

“My grandfather,” he began, “was a soldier of the Guard, and served

under Napoleon. He was in the retreat from Moscow, and lived for ten

days on his own leggings and a pair he stole from a comrade. He used to

get drunk—he died drunk, and I remember playing at drums on his coffin.

My father—”

Here we suggested that he might skip his ancestry and come to the

point.

“Bien, messieurs!” replied this comical little man, with a polite bow.

“I did only wish to demonstrate that the military principle is not

hereditary. My grandfather was a splendid man, six feet two high, broad

in proportion, a swallower of fire and gaiters. Also he was remarkable

for his moustache. To me there remains the moustache and—nothing more.

“I am, messieurs, a cook, and I was born at Marseilles. In that dear

town I spent my happy youth. For years and years I washed the dishes at

the Hôtel Continental. Ah, those were golden days!” and he sighed. “I

am a Frenchman. Need I say, messieurs, that I admire beauty? Nay, I

adore the fair. Messieurs, we admire all the roses in a garden, but we

pluck one. _I_ plucked one, and alas, messieurs, it pricked my finger.

She was a chambermaid, her name Annette, her figure ravishing, her face

an angel’s, her heart—alas, messieurs, that I should have to own

it!—black and slippery as a patent leather boot. I loved to

desperation, I adored her to despair. She transported me—in every

sense; she inspired me. Never have I cooked as I cooked (for I had been

promoted at the hotel) when Annette, my adored Annette, smiled on me.

Never”—and here his manly voice broke into a sob—“never shall I cook so

well again.” Here he melted into tears.

“Come, cheer up!” said Sir Henry in French, smacking him smartly on the

back. “There’s no knowing what may happen, you know. To judge from your

dinner today, I should say you were in a fair way to recovery.”

Alphonse stopped weeping, and began to rub his back. “Monsieur,” he

said, “doubtless means to console, but his hand is heavy. To continue:

we loved, and were happy in each other’s love. The birds in their

little nest could not be happier than Alphonse and his Annette. Then

came the blow—sapristi!—when I think of it. Messieurs will forgive me

if I wipe away a tear. Mine was an evil number; I was drawn for the

conscription. Fortune would be avenged on me for having won the heart

of Annette.

“The evil moment came; I had to go. I tried to run away, but I was

caught by brutal soldiers, and they banged me with the butt-end of

muskets till my mustachios curled with pain. I had a cousin a

linen-draper, well-to-do, but very ugly. He had drawn a good number,

and sympathized when they thumped me. ‘To thee, my cousin,’ I said, ‘to

thee, in whose veins flows the blue blood of our heroic grandparent, to

thee I consign Annette. Watch over her whilst I hunt for glory in the

bloody field.’

“‘Make your mind easy,’ said he; ‘I will.’ As the sequel shows, he did!

“I went. I lived in barracks on black soup. I am a refined man and a

poet by nature, and I suffered tortures from the coarse horror of my

surroundings. There was a drill sergeant, and he had a cane. Ah, that

cane, how it curled! Alas, never can I forget it!

“One morning came the news; my battalion was ordered to Tonquin. The

drill sergeant and the other coarse monsters rejoiced. I—I made

enquiries about Tonquin. They were not satisfactory. In Tonquin are

savage Chinese who rip you open. My artistic tastes—for I am also an

artist—recoiled from the idea of being ripped open. The great man makes

up his mind quickly. I made up my mind. I determined not to be ripped

open. I deserted.

“I reached Marseilles disguised as an old man. I went to the house of

my cousin—he in whom runs my grandfather’s heroic blood—and there sat

Annette. It was the season of cherries. They took a double stalk. At

each end was a cherry. My cousin put one into his mouth, Annette put

the other in hers. Then they drew the stalks in till their eyes met—and

alas, alas that I should have to say it!—they kissed. The game was a

pretty one, but it filled me with fury. The heroic blood of my

grandfather boiled up in me. I rushed into the kitchen. I struck my

cousin with the old man’s crutch. He fell—I had slain him. Alas, I

believe that I did slay him. Annette screamed. The gendarmes came. I

fled. I reached the harbour. I hid aboard a vessel. The vessel put to

sea. The captain found me and beat me. He took an opportunity. He

posted a letter from a foreign port to the police. He did not put me

ashore because I cooked so well. I cooked for him all the way to

Zanzibar. When I asked for payment he kicked me. The blood of my heroic

grandfather boiled within me, and I shook my fist in his face and vowed

to have my revenge. He kicked me again. At Zanzibar there was a

telegram. I cursed the man who invented telegraphs. Now I curse him

again. I was to be arrested for desertion, for murder, and _que

sais-je?_ I escaped from the prison. I fled, I starved. I met the men

of Monsieur le Curé. They brought me here. I am full of woe. But I

return not to France. Better to risk my life in these horrible places

than to know the Bagne.”

He paused, and we nearly choked with laughter, having to turn our faces

away.

“Ah! you weep, messieurs,” he said. “No wonder—it is a sad story.”

“Perhaps,” said Sir Henry, “the heroic blood of your grandparent will

triumph after all; perhaps you will still be great. At any rate we

shall see. And now I vote we go to bed. I am dead tired, and we had not

much sleep on that confounded rock last night.”

And so we did, and very strange the tidy rooms and clean white sheets

seemed to us after our recent experiences.