Adventure stories; Fantasy fiction, English; Quatermain, Allan (Fictitious character) -- Fiction
This he did and to the same effect, being a very honest and faithful
man. It was the more to his credit since, as he informed me in private,
he did not enjoy African adventure and often dreamed at nights of his
comfortable room at Ragnall whence he superintended the social
activities of that great establishment.
So we departed and marched for the matter of a month or more through
every kind of country. After we had passed the head of the great lake
wherein lay the island, if it really was an island, where the Pongo
used to dwell (one clear morning through my glasses I discerned the
mountain top that marked the former residence of the Mother of the
Flower, and by contrast it made me feel quite homesick), we struck up
north, following a route known to Babemba and our guides. After this we
steered by the stars through a land with very few inhabitants, timid
and nondescript folk who dwelt in scattered villages and scarcely
understood the art of cultivating the soil, even in its most primitive
form.
A hundred miles or so farther on these villages ceased and
thenceforward we only encountered some nomads, little bushmen who lived
on game which they shot with poisoned arrows. Once they attacked us and
killed two of the Mazitu with those horrid arrows, against the venom of
which no remedy that we had in our medicine chest proved of any avail.
On this occasion Savage exhibited his courage if not his discretion,
for rushing out of our thorn fence, after missing a bushman with both
barrels at a distance of five yards—he was, I think, the worst shot I
ever saw—he seized the little viper with his hands and dragged him back
to camp. How Savage escaped with his life I do not know, for one
poisoned arrow went through his hat and stuck in his hair and another
just grazed his leg without drawing blood.
This valorous deed was of great service to us, since we were able
through Hans, who knew something of the bushmen’s language, to explain
to our prisoner that if we were shot at again he would be hung. This
information he contrived to shout, or rather to squeak and grunt, to
his amiable tribe, of which it appeared he was a kind of chief, with
the result that we were no more molested. Later, when we were clear of
the bushmen country, we let him depart, which he did with great
rapidity.
By degrees the land grew more and more barren and utterly devoid of
inhabitants, till at last it merged into desert. At the edge of this
desert which rolled away without apparent limit we came, however, to a
kind of oasis where there was a strong and beautiful spring of water
that formed a stream which soon lost itself in the surrounding sand. As
we could go no farther, for even if we had wished to do so, and were
able to find water there, the Mazitu refused to accompany us into the
desert, not knowing what else to do, we camped in the oasis and waited.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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