The Great White Queen: A Tale of Treasure and Treason

by William Le Queux

  Produced by Suzanne Lybarger and the booksmiths athttps://www.eBookForge.net

  "Hurled headlong into the flaming mouth."--_Page 179._]

  THE GREAT WHITE QUEEN

  A TALE OF . .TREASURE ANDTREASON . . .

  BY

  WILLIAM LE QUEUX

  AUTHOR OF "ZORAIDA" "THE GREATWAR IN ENGLAND IN 1897" "A SECRETSERVICE" ETC. . .

  John F. Shaw & Co., Ltd.,_Publishers_,3, Pilgrim Street, London, E.C.

  CONTENTS.

  CHAP. PAGE I.--A ROMANCE 1 II.--OMAR'S SLAVE 8 III.--OUTWARD BOUND 18 IV.--A STRANGE PROMISE 25 V.--THE GIANT'S FINGER 31 VI.--THE ROYAL JUJUS 37 VII.--SAMORY'S STRONGHOLD 45 VIII.--THE SECRET OF THE QUEEN 52 IX.--CONDEMNED TO THE TORTURE 59 X.--ZOMARA 65 XI.--THE HUMAN SACRIFICE 72 XII.--IN THE SACRED GROVE 81 XIII.--THE WAY OF THE THOUSAND STEPS 88 XIV.--FOES 96 XV.--A NATURAL GRAVE 102 XVI.--WORDS OF FIRE 111 XVII.--A SALUTE OF BULLETS 122 XVIII.--THE MYSTERIOUS REALM 131 XIX.--THE CITY IN THE CLOUDS 138 XX.--THE GREAT WHITE QUEEN 143 XXI.--A FIGURE IN THE SHADOW 154 XXII.--TO THE UNKNOWN 162 XXIII.--UNDER THE VAMPIRE'S WING 169 XXIV.--THE FLAMING MOUTH 180 XXV.--LIOLA 191 XXVI.--THE FIRST BLOW 201 XXVII.--BY THE NAYA'S ORDERS 208XXVIII.--THE FIGHT FOR THE EMERALD THRONE 218 XXIX.--A MYSTERY 229 XXX.--TREASURE AND TREASON 242 XXXI.--A SPY'S STARTLING STORY 255 XXXII.--WAR 264XXXIII.--THE HAREM SLAVE 271 XXXIV.--LIOLA'S DISCOVERY 287 XXXV.--INTO THE MIST 303CONCLUSION 308

  THE GREAT WHITE QUEEN.

  CHAPTER I.

  A ROMANCE!

  IT is a curious story, full of exciting adventures, extraordinarydiscoveries, and mysteries amazing.

  Strange, too, that I, Richard Scarsmere, who, when at school hatedgeography as bitterly as I did algebraic problems, should even now, whilejust out of my teens, be thus enabled to write down this record of aperilous journey through a land known only by name to geographers, a vastregion wherein no stranger had ever before set foot.

  The face of the earth is well explored now-a-days, yet it has remainedfor me to discover and traverse one of the very few unknown countries,and to give the bald-headed old fogies of the Royal Geographical Societya lesson in the science that I once abominated.

  I have witnessed with my own eyes the mysteries of Mo. I have seen theGreat White Queen!

  Three years ago I had as little expectation of emulating the intrepidityof Stanley as I had of usurping the throne of England. An orphan, both ofwhose parents had been drowned in a yachting accident in the Solent andwhose elder brother succeeded to the estate, I was left in the care of amaternal uncle, a regular martinet, who sent me for several long anddreary years to Dr. Tregear's well-known Grammar-school at Eastbourne,and had given me to understand that I should eventually enter his officein London. Briefly, I was, when old enough, to follow the prosaic andill-paid avocation of clerk. But for a combination of circumstances, Ishould have, by this time, budded into one of those silk-hatted,patent-booted, milk-and-bun lunchers who sit on their high perches anddrive a pen from ten till four at a salary of sixteen shillings weekly.Such was the calling my relative thought good enough for me, although hisown sons were being trained for professional careers. In his ownestimation all his ideas were noble and his generosity unbounded; but notin mine.

  But this is not a school story, although its preparatory scenes takeplace at school. Some preparatory scenes must take place at school; butthe drama generally terminates on the broader stage of the world. Whocares for a rehearsal, save those who have taken part in it? I vow, if Ihad never been at Tregear's I would skip the very mention of his name. Asit is, however, I often sigh to see the shadow of the elms clusteringaround the playground, to watch the moonbeans illumine the ivied wallopposite the dormitory window. I often dream that I am back again, aCaesar-hating pupil.

  Dr. Tregear, commonly called "Old Trigger," lived at Upperton, a suburbof Eastbourne, and had accommodation for seventy boys, but during thewhole time I remained there we never had more than fifty. Hisadvertisements in local and London papers offering "Commercial trainingfor thirty guineas including laundress and books. Bracing air, gravelsoil, diet best and unlimited. Reduction for brothers," were glowingenough, but they never whipped up business sufficiently to attract therequired number of boarders. Nevertheless, I must admit that old Trigger,with all his faults and severity, was really good-hearted. He was alittle sniffing, rasping man, with small, spare, feeble, bent figure;mean irregular features badly arranged round a formidable bent, brokenred nose; thin straggling grey hair and long grey mutton-chop whiskers;constantly blinking little eyes and very assertive, energetic manners. Hehad a constant air of objecting to everything and everybody on principle.Knowing that I was an orphan he sometimes took me aside and gave me soundfatherly advice which I have since remembered, and am now beginning toappreciate. His wife, too, was a kindly motherly woman who, because beingpractically homeless I was often compelled to spend my holidays atschool, seemed better disposed towards me than to the majority of theother fellows.

  Yes, I got on famously at Trigger's. Known by the abbreviated appellationof "Scars," I enjoyed a popularity that was gratifying, and, bar one ortwo sneaks, there was not one who would not do me a good turn when Iwanted it. The sneaks were outsiders, and although we did not reckon themwhen we spoke of "the school," it must not be imagined that we forgot tobring them into our calculations in each conspiracy of devilment, nor tofasten upon them the consequences of our practical jokes.

  My best friend was a mystery. His name was Omar Sanom, a thin spare chapwith black piercing eyes set rather closely together, short crisp hairand a complexion of a slightly yellowish hue. I had been at Trigger'sabout twelve months and was thirteen when he arrived. I well rememberthat day. Accompanied by a tall, dark-faced man of decided negroid typewho appeared to be ill at ease in European clothes, he was shown into theDoctor's study, where a long consultation took place. Meanwhile among thefellows much speculation was rife as to who the stranger was, the popularopinion being that Trigger should not open his place to "savages," andthat if he came we would at once conspire to make his life unbearable andsend him to Coventry.

  An hour passed and listeners at the keyhole of the Doctor's door couldonly hear mumbling, as if the negotiations were being carried on in thestrictest secrecy. Presently, however, the black man wished Triggergood-day, and much to everyone's disgust and annoyance the yellow-facedstranger was brought in and introduced to us as Omar Sanom, the new boy.

  The mystery surrounding him was inscrutable. About my own age, he spokevery little English and would, in conversation, often drop unconsciouslyinto his own language, a strange one which none of the masters understoodor even knew its name. It seemed to me composed mainly of p's and l's. Toall our inquiries as to the place of his birth or nationality he remaineddumb. Whence he had come we knew not; we were only anxious to get rid ofhim.

  I do not think Trigger knew very much about him. That he paid
veryhandsomely for his education I do not doubt, for he was allowedprivileges accorded to no one else, one of which was that on Sundays whenwe were marched to church he was allowed to go for a walk instead, andduring prayers he always stood aside and looked on with superior air, asif pitying our simplicity. His religion was not ours.

  For quite a month it was a subject of much discussion as to which of thefive continents Omar came from, until one day, while giving a geographylesson the master, who had taken the West Coast of Africa as his subject,asked:

  "Where does the Volta River empty itself?"

  There was a dead silence that confessed ignorance. We had heard of theRussian Volga, but never of the Volta. Suddenly Omar, who stood next me,exclaimed in his broken English:

  "The Volta empties itself into the Gulf of Guinea. I've been there."

  "Quite correct," nodded the master approvingly, while Baynes, the fellowon my left, whispered:--

  "Yellow-Face has been there! He's a Guinea Pig--see?"

  I laughed and was punished in consequence, but the suggestion of thewitty Baynes being whispered round the school was effective. From thatmoment the yellow-faced mysterious foreigner was commonly known as "theGuinea Pig."

  We did our best to pump him and ascertain whether he had been born inGuinea, but he carefully avoided the subject. The information that hecame from the West Coast of Africa had evidently been given us quiteinvoluntarily. He had been asked a question about a spot he knewintimately, and the temptation to exhibit his superiority over us hadproved too great.

  Not only was his nationality a secret, but many of his actions puzzled usconsiderably. As an instance, whenever he drank anything, water, tea, orcoffee, he never lifted his cup to his lips before spilling a smallquantity upon the floor. If we had done this punishment would promptlyhave descended upon us, but the masters looked on at his curious anticsin silence.

  Around his neck beneath his clothes he wore a sort of necklet composed ofa string of tiny bags of leather, in which were sewn certain hardsubstances that could be felt inside. Even in the dormitory he neverremoved this, although plenty of chaff was directed towards him inconsequence of this extraordinary ornament. It was popularly supposedthat he came from some savage land, and that when at home this string ofleather bags was about the only article of dress he wore.

  If rather dull at school, he very soon picked up our language with allits slang, and quickly came to the fore in athletics. In running,swimming and rowing no one could keep pace with him. On foot he was fleetas a deer, and in the water could swim like a fish, while at archery hewas a dead shot. Within three months he had lived down all the prejudicesthat had been engendered by reason of his colour, and I confess that Imyself, who had at first regarded him with gravest suspicion, now beganto feel a friendliness towards him. Once or twice, at considerableinconvenience to himself he rendered me valuable services, and on oneoccasion got me out of a serious scrape by taking the blame himself,therefore within six months of his arrival we became the firmest ofchums. At work, as at play, we were always together, and notwithstandingthe popular feeling being antagonistic to my close acquaintance with the"Guinea Pig," I nevertheless knew from my own careful observations thatalthough a foreigner, half-savage he might be, he was certainly true andloyal to his friends.

  Once he fought. It was soon after we became chums that he had a quarrelwith the bully Baynes over the ownership of a catapult. Baynes, who wasthree years older, heavier built and much taller, threatened to thrashhim. This threat was sufficient. Omar at once challenged him, and thefight took place down in the paddock behind a hedge, secure fromTrigger's argus eye. As the pair took off their coats one of the fellowsjokingly said--

  "The Guinea Pig's a cannibal. He'll eat you, Baynes."

  Everybody laughed, but to their astonishment within five minutes ourchampion pugilist lay on the ground with swollen eye and sanguinary nose,imploring for mercy. That he could fight Omar quickly showed us, and ashe released the bully after giving him a sound dressing as a cat wouldshake a rat, he turned to us and with a laugh observed--

  "My people are neither cowards nor cannibals. We never fight unlessthreatened, but we never decline to meet our enemies."

  No one spoke. I helped him on with his coat, and together we left theground, while the partisans of Baynes picked up their fallen champion andproceeded to make him presentable.

  Like myself, Omar seemed friendless, for when the summer holidays cameround both of us remained with the Doctor and his wife, while the morefortunate ones always went away to their homes. At first he seemeddowncast, but we spent all our time together, and Mrs. Tregear, it mustbe admitted, did her best to make us comfortable, allowing us to ramblewhere we felt inclined, even surreptitiously supplying us withpocket-money.

  It was strange, however, that I never could get Omar to talk of himself.Confidential friends that we were, in possession of each other's secrets,he spoke freely of everything except his past. That some remarkableromance enveloped him I felt certain, yet by no endeavour could I fathomthe mystery.

  Twice or thrice each year the elderly negro who had first brought him tothe school visited him, and they were usually closeted a long timetogether. Perhaps his sable-faced guardian on those occasions told himnews of his relatives; perhaps he gave him good advice. Which, I knownot. The man, known as Mr. Makhana, was always very pleasant towards me,but never communicative. Yet he made up for that defect by once or twiceleaving half-a-sovereign within my ready palm. He appeared suddenlywithout warning, and left again, even Omar himself being unaware where hedwelt.

  Truly my friend was a mystery. Who he was, or whence he had come, was asecret.