Allan Quatermain · Chapter 8 (2/2)

Accordingly we brought him to the tree where he had hidden, and proceeded to sit in judgment on him, Sir Henry explaining to him in the very best French the unheard-of cowardice and enormity of his conduct, more especially in letting the oiled rag out of his mouth, whereby he nearly aroused the Masai camp with teeth-chattering and brought about the failure of our plans: ending up with a request for an explanation.

But if we expected to find Alphonse at a loss, and put him to open shame, we were destined to be disappointed. He bowed and scraped and smiled, and acknowledged that his conduct might at first blush appear strange, but really it was not, inasmuch as his teeth were not chattering from fear⁠—oh, dear no! oh, certainly not! he marvelled how the “messieurs” could think of such a thing⁠—but from the chill air of the morning. As for the rag, if monsieur could have but tasted its evil flavour, being compounded, indeed, of a mixture of stale paraffin oil, grease, and gunpowder, monsieur himself would have spat it out. But he did nothing of the sort; he determined to keep it there till, alas! his stomach “revolted,” and the rag was ejected in an access of involuntary sickness.

“And what have you to say about getting into the hollow tree?” asked Sir Henry, keeping his countenance with difficulty.

“But, monsieur, the explanation is easy; oh, most easy! it was thus: I stood there by the kraal wall, and the little grey monsieur hit me in the stomach so that my rifle exploded, and the battle began. I watched whilst recovering myself from monsieur’s cruel blow; then, messieurs, I felt the heroic blood of my grandfather boil up in my veins. The sight made me mad. I ground my teeth! Fire flashed from my eyes! I shouted ‘En avant!’ and longed to slay. Before my eyes there rose a vision of my heroic grandfather. In short, I was mad! I was a warrior indeed. But then in my heart I heard a small voice. ‘Alphonse,’ said the voice, ‘restrain thyself, Alphonse! Give not way to this evil passion! These men, though black, are brothers! And thou wouldst slay them? Cruel Alphonse!’ The voice was right. I knew it; I was about to perpetrate the most horrible cruelties: to wound⁠—to massacre⁠—to tear limb from limb! And how restrain myself? I looked round; I saw the tree, I perceived the hole. ‘Entomb thyself,’ said the voice, and hold on tight. ‘Thou wilt thus overcome temptation by main force.’ It was bitter, just when the blood of my heroic grandfather boiled most fiercely, but I obeyed. I dragged my unwilling feet along; I entombed myself. Through the hole I watched the battle. I shouted curses and defiance on the foe! I noted them fall with satisfaction. Why not? I had not robbed them of their lives. Their gore was not upon my head. The blood of my heroic⁠—”

“Oh, get along with you, you little cur!” broke out Sir Henry, with a shout of laughter, and giving Alphonse a good kick which sent him flying off with a rueful face.

In the evening I had an interview with Mr. Mackenzie, who was suffering a good deal from his wounds, which Good, who was a skilful though unqualified doctor, was treating him for. He told me that this occurrence had taught him a lesson, and that, if he recovered safely, he meant to hand over the Mission to a younger man, who was already on his road to join him in his work, and return to England.

“You see, Quatermain,” he said, “I made up my mind to it, this very morning, when we were creeping down upon those benighted savages. ‘If we live through this and rescue Flossie alive,’ I said to myself, ‘I will go home to England; I have had enough of savages.’ Well, I did not think that we should live through it at the time, but thanks be to God and you four, we have lived through it, and I mean to stick to my resolution, lest a worse thing befall us. Another such time would kill my poor wife. And besides, Quatermain, between you and me, I am well off; it is thirty thousand pounds I am worth today, and every farthing of it made by honest trade and savings in the bank at Zanzibar, for living here costs me next to nothing. So though it will be hard to leave this place, which I have made to blossom like a rose in the wilderness, and harder still to leave the people I have taught, I shall go.”

“I congratulate you on your decision,” answered I, “for two reasons. The first is, that you owe a duty to your wife and daughter, and more especially to the latter, who should receive some education and mix with girls of her own race; otherwise she will grow up wild, shunning her kind. The other is, that as sure as I am standing here, sooner or later the Masai will try to avenge the slaughter inflicted on them today. Two or three men are sure to have escaped the confusion who will carry the story back to their people, and the result will be that a great expedition will one day be sent against you. It might be delayed for a year, but sooner or later it will come. Therefore, if only for that reason, I should go. When once they have learnt that you are no longer here they may perhaps leave the place alone.”8

“You are quite right,” answered the clergyman. “I will turn my back upon this place in a month. But it will be a wrench; it will be a wrench.”