Adventure stories; Fantasy fiction, English; Quatermain, Allan (Fictitious character) -- Fiction
Wending our way along the road that ran through the tall corn, for here
every inch was cultivated, we came suddenly upon the capital of the
Black Kendah, which was known as Simba Town. It was a large place,
somewhat different from any other African settlement with which I am
acquainted, inasmuch as it was not only stockaded but completely
surrounded by a broad artificial moat filled with water from a stream
that ran through the centre of the town, over which moat there were
four timber bridges placed at the cardinal points of the compass. These
bridges were strong enough to bear horses or stock, but so made that in
the event of attack they could be destroyed in a few minutes.
Riding through the eastern gate, a stout timber structure on the
farther side of the corresponding bridge, where the king was received
with salutes by an armed guard, we entered one of the main streets of
the town which ran from north to south and from east to west. It was
broad and on either side of it were the dwellings of the inhabitants
set close together because the space within the stockade was limited.
These were not huts but square buildings of mud with flat roofs of some
kind of cement. Evidently they were built upon the model of Oriental
and North African houses of which some debased tradition remained with
these people. Thus a stairway or ladder ran from the interior to the
roof of each house, whereon its inhabitants were accustomed, as I
discovered afterwards, to sleep during a good part of the year, also to
eat in the cool of the day. Many of them were gathered there now to
watch us pass, men, women, and children, all except the little ones
decently clothed in long garments of various colours, the women for the
most part in white and the men in a kind of bluish linen.
I saw at once that they had already heard of the fight and of the
considerable losses which their people had sustained, for their
reception of us prisoners was most unfriendly. Indeed the men shook
their fists at us, the women screamed out curses, while the children
stuck out their tongues in token of derision or defiance. Most of these
demonstrations, however, were directed at Marût and his followers, who
only smiled indifferently. At me they stared in wonder not unmixed with
fear.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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