Allan Quatermain

I inscribe this book of adventure to my son ARTHUR JOHN RIDER
HAGGARD in the hope that in days to come he, and many other
boys whom I shall never know, may, in the acts and thoughts of
Allan Quatermain and his companions, as herein recorded,
find something to help him and them to reach to what, with Sir
Henry Curtis, I hold to be the highest rank whereto we can
attain -- the state and dignity of English gentlemen.




CONTENTS



       INTRODUCTION
I      THE CONSUL'S YARN
II     THE BLACK HAND
III    THE MISSION STATION
IV     ALPHONSE AND HIS ANNETTE
V      UMSLOPOGAAS MAKES A PROMISE
VI     THE NIGHT WEARS ON
VII    A SLAUGHTER GRIM AND GREAT
VIII   ALPHONSE EXPLAINS
IX     INTO THE UNKNOWN
X      THE ROSE OF FIRE
XI     THE FROWNING CITY
XII    THE SISTER QUEENS
XIII   ABOUT THE ZU-VENDI PEOPLE
XIV    THE FLOWER TEMPLE
XV     SORAIS' SONG
XVI    BEFORE THE STATUE
XVII   THE STORM BREAKS
XVIII  WAR! RED WAR!
XIX    A STRANGE WEDDING
XX     THE BATTLE OF THE PASS
XXI    AWAY! AWAY!
XXII   HOW UMSLOPOGAAS HELD THE STAIR
XXIII  I HAVE SPOKEN




INTRODUCTION



December 23

'I have just buried my boy, my poor handsome boy of whom I was
so proud, and my heart is broken.  It is very hard having only
one son to lose him thus, but God's will be done.  Who am I that
I should complain?  The great wheel of Fate rolls on like a Juggernaut,
and crushes us all in turn, some soon, some late -- it does not
matter when, in the end, it crushes us all.  We do not prostrate
ourselves before it like the poor Indians; we fly hither and
thither -- we cry for mercy; but it is of no use, the black Fate
thunders on and in its season reduces us to powder.

'Poor Harry to go so soon! just when his life was opening to
him.  He was doing so well at the hospital, he had passed his
last examination with honours, and I was proud of them, much
prouder than he was, I think.  And then he must needs go to that
smallpox hospital.  He wrote to me that he was not afraid of
smallpox and wanted to gain the experience; and now the disease
has killed him, and I, old and grey and withered, am left to
mourn over him, without a chick or child to comfort me.  I might
have saved him, too -- I have money enough for both of us, and
much more than enough -- King Solomon's Mines provided me with
that; but I said, "No, let the boy earn his living, let him labour
that he may enjoy rest."  But the rest has come to him before
the labour.  Oh, my boy, my boy!

'I am like the man in the Bible who laid up much goods and builded
barns -- goods for my boy and barns for him to store them in;
and now his soul has been required of him, and I am left desolate.
I would that it had been my soul and not my boy's!

'We buried him this afternoon under the shadow of the grey and
ancient tower of the church of this village where my house is.
It was a dreary December afternoon, and the sky was heavy with
snow, but not much was falling.  The coffin was put down by the
grave, and a few big flakes lit upon it.  They looked very white
upon the black cloth!  There was a little hitch about getting
the coffin down into the grave -- the necessary ropes had been
forgotten: so we drew back from it, and waited in silence watching
the big flakes fall gently one by one like heavenly benedictions,
and melt in tears on Harry's pall.  But that was not all.  A
robin redbreast came as bold as could be and lit upon the coffin
and began to sing.  And then I am afraid that I broke down, and
so did Sir Henry Curtis, strong man though he is; and as for
Captain Good, I saw him turn away too; even in my own distress
I could not help noticing it.'


The above, signed 'Allan Quatermain', is an extract from my diary
written two years and more ago.  I copy it down here because
it seems to me that it is the fittest beginning to the history
that I am about to write, if it please God to spare me to finish
it.  If not, well it does not matter.  That extract was penned