Twilight was fast closing in upon the desolate site of the old Kambula
Camp, and the short, sharp thunderstorm which at the moment of
outspanning had effectually drenched the scant supply of fuel, rendering
that evening's repast, of necessity, cold commons, had left in its wake
a thin but steady downpour. Already the line of low hills hard by was
indistinct in the growing gloom, and a far-reaching expanse of cold and
treeless plains made up a surrounding as mournful and depressing as
could be.
The waggon stood outspanned in the tall grass, which, waist high, was
about as pleasant to stand in as the drift of a river. Just above, the
conical ridge, once crested with fort and waggon laagers, and swarming
with busy life, and the stir and hum of troops on hard active service,
now desolate and abandoned--the site, indeed, still discernible if only
by ancient tins, and much fragmentary residue of the ubiquitous British
bottle. Below, several dark patches in the grass marked the
resting-place of hundreds of Zulu dead--fiery, intrepid warriors--mown
down in foil and sweeping rush, with lips still framing the war cry of
their king, fierce resolute hands still gripping the deadly charging
spear. Now a silent and spectral peace rested upon this erewhile scene
of fierce and furious war, a peace that in the gathering gloom had in it
something that was weird, boding, oppressive. Even my natives, usually
prone to laughter and cheery spirits, seemed subdued, as though loth to
pass the night upon this actual site of vast and tolerably recent
bloodshed; and the waggon leader, a smart but unimaginative lad, showed
a suspicious alacrity in driving back the span from drinking at the
adjacent water-hole. Yes! It is going to be a detestable night.
Hard biscuit and canned jam are but a poor substitute for fizzling
rashers and wheaten cakes, white as snow within and hot from the
gridiron; yet there is a worse one, and that is no biscuit at all.
Moreover, there is plenty of whisky, and with that and a pipe I proceed
to make myself as snug as may be within the waggon, which is not saying
much, for the tent leaks abominably. But life in the Veldt accustoms
one to such little inconveniences, and soon, although the night is yet
young--has hardly begun, in fact--I find myself nodding, and becoming
rapidly and blissfully oblivious to cold splashes dropping incontinently
from new and unexpected quarters.
The oxen are not yet made fast to the disselboom for the night, and one
of my natives is away to collect them. The others, rolled in their
blankets beneath the waggon, are becoming more and more drowsy in the
hum of their conversation. Suddenly this becomes wide-awake and alert.
They are sitting up, and are, I gather from their remarks, listening to
the approach of something or somebody. Who--what is it? There are no
wild animals to reckon with in that part of the country, save for a
stray leopard or so, and Zulus have a wholesome shrinking from moving
abroad at night, let alone on such a night as this. Yet on peering
forth, a few seconds reveal the approach of somebody. A tall form
starts out of the darkness and the long wet grass, and from it the deep
bass tones of the familiar Zulu greeting: "Nkose!"
Stay! Can it be? I ought indeed to know that voice; yet what does its
owner here thus and at such an hour? This last, however, is its said
owner's business exclusively.
"Greeting, Untuswa! Welcome, old friend," I answered. "Here is no fire
to sit by, but the inside of the waggon is fairly dry; at any rate not
so wet as outside. And there is a dry blanket or two and a measure of
strong _tywala_ to restore warmth, likewise snuff in abundance. So
climb up here, winner of the King's Assegai, holder of the White Shield,
and make thyself snug, for the night is vile."
Now, as this fine old warrior was in the act of climbing up into the
waggon, there came a sound of trampling and the clash of horns, causing
him to turn his head. The waggon leader, having collected the span, was
bringing it in to attach to the yokes for the night, for it promised
soon to be pitch dark, and now the heads of the oxen looked spectral in
the mist. One especially, a great black one, with wide branching horns
rising above the fast gathering sea of vapour, seemed to float upon the
latter--a vast head without a trunk. The sight drew from Untuswa a
shake of the head and a few quick muttered words of wonderment. That
was all then, but when snug out of the drizzling rain, warmed by a
measure of whisky, and squatting happy and comfortable in a dry blanket,
snuff-box in hand, he began a story, and I--well, I thought I was in
luck's way, for a wet and cheerless and lonely evening stood to lose all
its depression and discomfort if spent in listening to one of old
Untuswa's stories.