Chapter 1
DEDICATION
My Dear Macumazahn,
It was your native name which I borrowed at the christening of that Allan
who has become as well known to me as any other friend I have. It is therefore
fitting that I should dedicate to you this, his last tale—the story of
his wife, and the history of some further adventures which befell him. They
will remind you of many an African yarn—that with the baboons may recall
an experience of your own which I did not share. And perhaps they will do more
than this. Perhaps they will bring back to you some of the long past romance of
days that are lost to us. The country of which Allan Quatermain tells his tale
is now, for the most part, as well known and explored as are the fields of
Norfolk. Where we shot and trekked and galloped, scarcely seeing the face of
civilized man, there the gold-seeker builds his cities. The shadow of the flag
of Britain has, for a while, ceased to fall on the Transvaal plains; the game
has gone; the misty charm of the morning has become the glare of day. All is
changed. The blue gums that we planted in the garden of the
“Palatial” must be large trees by now, and the
“Palatial” itself has passed from us. Jess sat in it waiting for
her love after we were gone. There she nursed him back to life. But Jess is
dead, and strangers own it, or perhaps it is a ruin.
For us too, Macumazahn, as for the land we loved, the mystery and promise
of the morning are outworn; the mid-day sun burns overhead, and at times the
way is weary. Few of those we knew are left. Some are victims to battle and
murder, their bones strew the veldt; death has taken some in a more gentle
fashion; others are hidden from us, we know not where. We might well fear to
return to that land lest we also should see ghosts. But though we walk apart
to-day, the past yet looks upon us with its unalterable eyes. Still we can
remember many a boyish enterprise and adventure, lightly undertaken, which now
would strike us as hazardous indeed. Still we can recall the long familiar line
of the Pretoria Horse, the face of war and panic, the weariness of midnight
patrols; aye, and hear the roar of guns echoed from the Shameful Hill.
To you then, Macumazahn, in perpetual memory of those eventful years of
youth which we passed together in the African towns and on the African veldt, I
dedicate these pages, subscribing myself now as always,
Your sincere friend,
Indanda.
To Arthur H. D. Cochrane, Esq.