We buried the King with great ceremony and the sacrifice of beasts; and
the whole army sat around in deep silence, the silence of grief and
mourning for that the nation was now left without a head; but it was a
silence that was rendered more awesome by the death-rites of the
_izanusi_ and the wailings of the women. Only for a short while,
however, was the Great Great One to sit upon that seat, for he was taken
up again in the dead of night and removed to a secret grave, known to
but very few, as the custom is to keep secret the burial-places of
kings.
Yes, with the passing away of Dingane the army was as a body without a
head. At such a time the thought would often be in my mind how Lalusini
would have me seize the opportunity of putting myself in Dingane's
place; for I too was of a royal tree--that of Dingiswayo, of the tribe
of Umtetwa, whose place had been seized by Tshaka--yet not near enough
was I to the stem of that tree, being but a branch. But I could clearly
see that if opportunity there had been it was now no more. The loyalty
of the army to the House of Senzangakona was too great; and now, being
without a head, the warriors began to talk among themselves of the
expediency of doing _konza_ to the other Great One of that House. So we
consulted together--I and Silwane and some of the principal war-chiefs--
and in a short time we sent messengers to Mpande, who was the rightful
King now, however he might owe his seat to the Amabuna. But with the
army that had followed the Great One who was dead turned into his own
army, Mpande might perhaps remedy even that.
Our messengers returned accompanied by others, including an induna of
note, assuring us of the royal favour. That decided us.
It was a great day, the day that saw the nation reunited once more.
Mpande sat in state, as our army filed in to his kraal near the Tugela--
for Nodwengu had not then been erected--singing songs of war and praises
to the new King; and when as one man the whole number of those black
ones threw down their weapons and shields and shouted aloud the
"_Bayete_," bending low before him, the look upon the face of the King
was one of gladness and great pride. Then he spoke to us. We had
fought hard and valiantly for that Great One who was no more. We had
been faithful to our rightful King, and had cleaved to him through his
reverses. The stroke of some evil wizard had laid that Great One low in
the dark hours of the night, but the House of Senzangakona was not dead
yet, and we, quick to see this, had hastened to cry the "_Bayete_" to
the head of that house, and the head of the Zulu nation. By reason of
the fidelity we had shown he assured us of his favour, for upon such he
felt he could rely.
Then the principal indunas of the returning army were called up, one by
one, and "named," and thus were continued in the commands they had held
up till now; some indeed being advanced to even greater honour--among
them myself. And Mpande's word stood, for he ever regarded those who
had adhered to Dingane with greater favour than those who had divided
the nation with him. But that day was passed in great rejoicing, and
many cattle were slaughtered, and the feasting went on far into the
night.
Towards its close I retired to my hut, thinking perhaps to find there my
Swazi wives, who had been given me by that Great One who was gone. But
they were not there, nor was any--and while I was thinking what had
become of them the door was pushed softly open, and a voice said:
"Now, Untuswa, do I return. Am I welcome?"
_Whau, Nkose_! Then did I leap to my feet in amazement and joy. For
the voice was that of Lalusini.
She had entered, and was standing upright within the hut.
"Welcome indeed, Lalusini," I replied. "Art thou then tired of thy
sorcery?"
"I think that is so, Untuswa. There is much that is weariful in it. I
would have made thee great, and myself with thee--then whispering--I
would have reigned with thee Queen over this nation, but now I think I
must live and die the wife of an induna only. Well, `the stroke of
Sopuza' has fallen, that is something."
I looked at her strangely in the firelight, for well I knew whose was
the hand that directed "the stroke of Sopuza." She went on:
"Ah, ah, Untuswa! The greatness I had destined for thee can never be
thine. Thou art too faithful. I would have had thee do it--yet my
heart went forth to thee, thou great, brave, honest fighter, whose spear
refused to strike the sleeping one--who chose to serve a King in his
downfall rather than be served as King thyself. Thou wilt never be
greater than an induna thyself, and I--well, I think I shall never be
greater than an induna's wife."
And with these words she began to spread the mats in the hut, and heaped
more wood upon the fire, and saw that things were in their places. Then
she came and sat beside me.
Well, what mattered further greatness? I was great enough, being high
in the councils of those who, under the King, ruled the nation, and for
long I sat thus in a high place, and the favour of Mpande was always
over me. But I had indeed passed through strange things, even as old
Gasitye had predicted I should when speaking from the ghost-cliff in the
Valley of the Red Death. Yes, and even more was I destined to see, for
soon the Amabuna were driven out in their turn, and the land they had
seized from us was reft from them by the English. Howbeit on these we
made no war, for they entered into a treaty with Mpande that the Zulu
people should dwell on this side of the Tugela, and the English on the
other; and this agreement they kept faithfully for a long space of time
until they began to fear Cetywayo, and then--but, _Nkose_, about that
you know, and I have already told far too long a tale for one night.
Yet, it is strange that the sight of the horns of your oxen, branching
through the mist, should have drawn forth not only the tale of the
ghost-bull and the Valley of the Red Death, but a greater one still--
even that of the downfall and death of Dingane, and the dividing of the
great Zulu nation; but so it ever is with the lives of men, one thing
leads on to another. And now, _Nkose_, I think the time has come for
sleep. Sleep well, _Nkose. Whau_! I know not whether you will return
to this country again to hear tales of its old doings of battle and of
blood, of warrior-kings and sorcerers, and beasts that have the life of
the ghosts of magicians within them, for I am old now, and my time is at
hand for a longer sleep than that which now awaits me underneath your
waggon. _Nkose! Hlala gahle_!
------------------------------------------------------------------------
But though old Untuswa could thus turn in, and with his blanket over his
head could snooze away snugly beneath the shelter of the waggon, to me
slumber refused to come. The graphic tale I had just heard, the tale of
the first downfall of the Zulu power told in the dead of night on the
very spot whereon had been contested the fierce and determined struggle
which had in effect decided the second--for it was the British success
at Kambula that rendered that at Ulundi assured--this tale, told, too,
by a living actor in those stirring events of the bygone annals of a
martial race, seemed to people all the surrounding waste; and looking
forth, it needed no great tax on the imagination to conjure up the
shades of slain warriors rising in hundreds from their common grave down
yonder on the slope; and, shield and spear-armed, re-forming in wild and
fantastic array of war.
And over and above such fanciful flights it was a tale to set one
thinking--if one had never thought before--of the senselessness of
deciding offhand the morality of this or that deed which helpeth to make
history from one hard-and-fast point of view, and that point of view the
British; or of stigmatising even a savage potentate as a treacherous and
cruel monster, because he is not particular as to his methods when it
becomes a question of preserving his nation's rights and his nation's
greatness, what time such are threatened and invaded by Christians, whom
subsequent events show to be the reverse of models of uprightness or
fair dealing themselves. And it was even as old Untuswa had said: "You
white people and ourselves see things differently, and I suppose it will
always be so."
Yes, it was a fitting episode in the annals of a warrior nation, that
tale of fierce wars, and intrigue, and sturdy loyalty, and even of a
chivalry, not exactly describable by the term "rude"; most of all, too,
was it a tale essentially human, showing how the same desires and
motives enkindle the same actions and their results in the heart that
beats beneath a brown skin as in that which beats beneath a white one.
And therein, perhaps, lay its greatest charm.