HE SHALL DIE
The night was still and very dark. A soft cold rain, such as often
falls in the Wakkerstroom and New Scotland districts of the Transvaal,
and which more resembles a true north country mist than anything else,
was drizzling gently but persistently. This condition of affairs was as
favourable as possible to their enterprise, and under cover of it the
Hottentot and the white girl crept far down the hill to within twelve
or fourteen paces of the back of the waggon-house. Then Jantje, who was
leading, suddenly put back his hand and checked her, and at that moment
Jess caught the sound of a sentry’s footsteps as he tramped leisurely
up and down. For a couple of minutes or so they stopped thus, not
knowing what to do, when suddenly a man came round the corner of the
building holding a lantern in his hand. On seeing the lantern Jess’s
first impulse was to fly, but Jantje by a motion made her understand
that she was to stop still. The man with the lantern advanced towards
the other man, holding the light above his head, and looking dim and
gigantic in the mist and rain. Presently he turned his face, and Jess
saw that it was Frank Muller himself. He stood thus for a moment
waiting till the sentry was near to him.
“You can go to your supper,” he said. “Come back in half an hour. I
will be responsible for the prisoners till then.”
The man growled out an answer something about the rain, and then
departed round the end of the building, followed by Muller.
“Now then, come on,” whispered Jantje; “there is a hole in the
store-room wall, and you may be able to speak to Missie Bessie.”
Jess did not require a second invitation, but slipped up to the wall in
five seconds. Passing her hand over the stone-work she found the
air-hole, which she remembered well, for they used to play bo-peep
there as children, and was about to whisper through it, when suddenly
the door at the other end opened, and Frank Muller entered, bearing the
lantern in his hand. For a moment he stood on the threshold, opening
the slide of the lantern in order to increase the light. His hat was
off, and he wore a cape of dark cloth thrown over his shoulders, which
seemed to add to his great breadth. Indeed the thought flashed through
the mind of Jess as she looked at him through the hole, and saw the
light strike upon his face and form, glinting down his golden beard,
that he was the most magnificent specimen of humanity whom she had ever
seen. In another instant he had turned the lantern round and revealed
her dear sister Bessie to her gaze. Bessie lay upon one of the
half-empty sacks of mealies, apparently half asleep, for she opened her
wide blue eyes and looked round apprehensively like one suddenly
awakened. Her golden curls were in disorder and falling over her fair
forehead, and her face was very pale and troubled, and marked beneath
the eyes with deep blue lines. Catching sight of her visitor she rose
hurriedly and retreated as far from him as the pile of sacks and
potatoes would allow.
“What is it?” she asked in a low voice. “I gave you my answer. Why do
you come to torment me again?”
He placed the lantern upon an upright sack of mealies, and carefully
balanced it before he answered. Jess could see that he was taking time
to consider.
“Let us recapitulate,” he said at length, in his full rich voice. “The
position is this. I gave you this morning the choice between consenting
to marry me to-morrow and seeing your old uncle and benefactor shot.
Further, I assured you that if you would not consent to marry me your
uncle should be shot, and that I would then make you mine, dispensing
with the ceremony of marriage. Is that not so?”
Bessie made no answer, and he continued, his eyes fixed upon her face,
and thoughtfully stroking his beard.
“Silence gives consent. I will go on. Before a man can be shot
according to law he must be tried and condemned according to law. Your
uncle has been tried and has been condemned.”
“I heard it all, cruel murderer that you are,” said Bessie, lifting her
head for the first time.
“So! I thought you would, through the crack. That is why I had you put
into this place; it would not have looked well to bring you before the
court;” and he took the light and examined the crevice. “This wall is
badly built,” he went on in a careless tone; “look, there is another
space there at the back;” and he actually came up to it and held the
lantern close to the airhole in such fashion that its light shone
through into Jess’s eyes and nearly blinded her. She shut them quickly
so that the gleam reflected from them should not betray her, then held
her breath and remained still as the dead. In another second Muller
took away the light and replaced it on the mealie bag.
“So you say you saw it all. Well, it must have shown you that I was in
earnest. The old man took it well, did he not? He is a brave man, and I
respect him. I fancy that he will not move a muscle at the last. That
comes of English blood, you see. It is the best in the world, and I am
proud to have it in my veins.”
“Cannot you stop torturing me, and say what you have to say?” asked
Bessie.
“I had no wish to torture you, but if you like I will come to the
point. It is this. Will you now consent to marry me to-morrow morning
at sun-up, or am I to be forced to carry the sentence on your old uncle
into effect?”
“I will not. I will not. I hate you and defy you.”
Muller looked at her coldly, and then drew his pocket-book from his
pocket and extracted from it the death-warrant and a pencil.
“Look, Bessie,” he said. “This is your uncle’s death-warrant. At
present it is valueless and informal, for I have not yet signed,
though, as you will see, I have been careful that everybody else
should. If once I place my signature there it cannot be revoked, and
the sentence must be carried into effect. If you persist in your
refusal I will sign it before your eyes;” and he placed the paper on
the book and took the pencil in his right hand.
“Oh, you cannot, you cannot be such a fiend,” wailed the wretched
woman, wringing her hands.
“I assure you that you are mistaken. I both can and will. I have gone
too far to turn back for the sake of one old Englishman. Listen,
Bessie. Your lover Niel is dead—that you know.”
Here Jess behind the wall felt inclined to cry out, “it is a lie!” but,
remembering the absolute necessity of silence, she checked herself.
“And what is more,” went on Muller, “your sister Jess is dead too! she
died two days ago.”
“Jess dead! Jess dead! It is not true. How do you know that she is
dead?”
“Never mind; I will tell you when we are married. She is dead, and,
except for your uncle, you are alone in the world. If you persist in
this he will soon be dead too, and his blood will be upon your head,
for you will have murdered him.”
“And if I were to say yes, how would that help him?” she cried wildly.
“He is condemned by your court-martial—you would only deceive me and
murder him after all.”
“On my honour, no. Before the marriage I will give this warrant to the
pastor, and he shall burn it as soon as the service is said. But,
Bessie, don’t you see that these fools who tried your uncle are only
like clay in my hands? I can bend them this way and that, and whatever
song I sing they will echo it. They do not wish to shoot your uncle,
and will be glad indeed to get out of it. Your uncle shall go in safety
to Natal, or stay here if he wills. His property shall be secured to
him, and compensation paid for the burning of his house. I swear it
before God.”
She looked up at him, and he could see that she was inclined to believe
him.
“It is true, Bessie, it is true—I will rebuild the place myself, and if
I can find the man who fired it he shall be shot. Come, listen to me,
and be reasonable. The man you love is dead, and no amount of sighing
can bring him to your arms. I alone am left—I who love you better than
life, better than man ever loved woman before. Look at me: am I not a
proper man for any maid to wed, though I be half a Boer? And I have the
brains, too, Bessie, the brains that shall make us both great. We were
made for each other—I have known it for years, and slowly, slowly, I
have worked my way to you till at last you are in my reach;” and he
stretched out both his arms towards her.
“My darling,” he went on, in a soft, half-dreamy voice, “my love and
desire, yield, now—yield! Do not force this new crime upon me. I want
to grow good for your sake, and have done with bloodshed. When you are
my wife I believe that the evil will go out of me, and I shall grow
good. Yield, and never shall woman have had such a husband as I will be
to you. I will make your life soft and beautiful to you as women love
life to be. You shall have everything that money can buy and power
bring. Yield for your uncle’s sake, and for the sake of the great love
I bear you.”
As he spoke he was slowly drawing nearer Bessie, whose face wore a
half-fascinated expression. As he came the wretched woman gathered
herself together and put out her hand to repulse him. “No, no,” she
cried, “I hate you—I cannot be false to him, living or dead. I shall
kill myself—I know I shall.”
He made no answer, but only came always nearer, till at last his strong
arms closed round her shrinking form and drew her to him as easily as
though she were a babe. And then all at once she seemed to yield. That
embrace was the outward sign of his cruel mastery, and she struggled no
more, mentally or physically.
“Will you marry me, darling—will you marry me?” he whispered, with his
lips so close to the golden curls that Jess, straining her ears
outside, could only just catch the words—
“Oh, I suppose so; but I shall die—it will kill me.”
He strained her to his heart and kissed her beautiful face again and
again, until Jess heard the heavy footsteps of the returning sentry,
and saw Muller leave go of her. Then Jantje caught Jess by the hand,
dragging her away from the wall, and presently she was once more
ascending the hill-side towards the Hottentot’s kennel. She had desired
to find out how matters stood, and she had found out indeed. To attempt
to portray the fury, the indignation, and the thirst to be avenged upon
this fiend who had attempted to murder her and her lover, and had
bought her dear sister’s honour at the price of their innocent old
uncle’s life, would be impossible. Her weariness had left her; she was
mad with all she had seen and heard, with the knowledge of what had
been done and of what was about to be done. She even forgot her passion
in it, and swore that Muller should never marry Bessie while she lived
to prevent it. Had she been a bad woman herein she might have seen an
opportunity, for Bessie once tied to Muller, John would be free to
marry her, but this idea never even entered her mind. Whatever Jess’s
errors may have been she was a self-sacrificing, honourable woman, and
one who would have died rather than profit thus by circumstance. At
length they reached the shelter again and crept into it.
“Light a candle,” said Jess.
Jantje hunted for and struck a match. The piece of candle they had been
using, however, was nearly burnt out, so from the rubbish in the corner
he produced a box full of “ends,” some of them three or four inches
long. In the queer sort of way that trifles do strike us when the mind
is undergoing a severe strain, Jess remembered instantly that for years
she had been unable to discover what became of the odd bits of the
candles used in the house. Now the mystery was explained.
“Go outside and leave me. I want to think,” she said.
The Hottentot obeyed, and seated upon the heap of skins, her forehead
resting on her hand and her fingers buried in her silky rain-soaked
hair, Jess began to review the position. It was evident to her that
Frank Muller would be as good as his word. She knew him too well to
doubt this for a moment. If Bessie did not marry him he would murder
the old man, as he had tried to murder herself and John, only this time
judicially, and then abduct her sister afterwards. She was the only
price that he was prepared to take in exchange for her uncle’s life.
But it was impossible to allow Bessie to be so sacrificed; the thought
was horrible to her.
How, then, was it to be prevented?
She thought again of confronting Frank Muller and openly accusing him
of her attempted murder, only, however, to dismiss the idea. Who would
believe her? And if they did believe what good would it do? She would
only be imprisoned and kept out of harm’s way, or possibly murdered out
of hand. Then she thought of attempting to communicate with her uncle
and Bessie, to tell them that John was, so far as she knew, alive, only
to recognise the impossibility of doing so now that the sentry had
returned. Besides, what object could be served? The knowledge that John
was alive might, it is true, encourage Bessie to resist Muller, but
then the death of the old man must certainly ensue. Dismissing this
project from her mind Jess began to consider whether they could obtain
assistance. Alas! it was impossible. The only people from whom she
could hope for aid would be the natives, and now that the Boers had
triumphed over the English—for this much she had gathered from her
captors and from Jantje—it was very doubtful if the Kafirs would dare
to assist her. Besides, at the best it would take twenty-four hours to
collect a force, and by then help would come too late. The situation
was hopeless. Nowhere could she see a ray of light.
“What,” Jess said aloud to herself—“what is there in the world that
will stop a man like Frank Muller?”
And then of an instant the answer rose up in her brain as though by
inspiration—
“_Death!_”
Death, and death alone, would stay him. For a minute she held the idea
in her mind till she grew familiar with it, then it was driven out by
another thought that followed swiftly on its track. Frank Muller must
die, and die before the morning light. By no other possible means could
the Gordian knot be cut, and both Bessie and her old uncle be saved. If
he were dead he could not marry Bessie, and if he died with the warrant
unsigned their uncle could not be executed. That was the terrible
answer to her riddle.
Yet it was most just that he should die, for had he not murdered and
attempted murder? Surely if ever a man deserved a swift and awful doom
that man was Frank Muller.
And so this forsaken, helpless girl, crouching upon the ground a torn
and bespattered fugitive in the miserable hiding-hole of a Hottentot,
arraigned the powerful leader of men before the tribunal of her
conscience, and without pity, if without wrath, passed upon him a
sentence of extinction.
But who was to be the executioner? A dreadful thought flashed into her
mind and made her heart stand still, but she dismissed it. No, she had
not come to that! Her eyes wandering round the kennel lit upon Jantje’s
assegais and sticks in the corner, and these gave her another
inspiration. Jantje should do the deed.
John had told her one day when they were sitting together in “The
Palatial” at Pretoria the whole of Jantje’s awful story about the
massacre of his relatives by Frank Muller twenty years before, of
which, indeed, she already knew something. It would be most fitting
that this fiend should be removed from the face of the earth by the
survivor of those unfortunates. That would be poetic justice, and
justice is so rare in the world. But the question was, would he do it?
The little man was a wonderful coward, that she knew, and had a great
terror of Boers, and especially of Frank Muller.
“Jantje,” she whispered, stooping towards the bee-hole.
“Yah, missie,” answered a hoarse voice outside, and next second the
Hottentot’s monkey-like face came creeping into the ring of light,
followed by his even more monkey-like form.
“Sit down there, Jantje. I am lonely here and want to talk.”
He obeyed her, with a grin. “What shall we talk about, missie? Shall I
tell you a story of the time when the beasts could speak, as I used to
do years and years ago?”
“No, Jantje. Tell me about that stick—that long stick with a knob at
the top, and the nicks cut on it. Has it not something to do with Frank
Muller?”
The Hottentot’s face instantly grew evil. “Yah, yah, missie!” he said,
reaching out a skinny claw and seizing the stick. “Look, this big
notch, that is my father, Baas Frank shot him; and this next notch,
that is my mother, Baas Frank shot her; and this next notch, that is my
uncle, an old, old man, Baas Frank shot him also. And these small
notches, they are when he has beaten me—yes, and other things too. And
now I will make more notches, one for the house that is burnt, and one
for the old Baas Croft, my own Baas, whom he is going to shoot, and one
for Missie Bessie.” And Jantje drew from his side his large
white-handled hunting-knife and began to cut them then and there upon
the hard wood of the stick.
Jess knew this knife of old. It was Jantje’s peculiar treasure, the
chief joy of his narrow little heart. He had brought it from a Zulu for
a heifer which her uncle had given him in lieu of half a year’s wage.
The Zulu had it from a half-caste whose kraal was beyond Delagoa Bay.
As a matter of fact it was a Somali knife, manufactured from the soft
native steel which takes an edge like a razor, and with a handle cut
out of the tusk of a hippopotamus. For the rest, it was about a foot
long, with three grooves running the length of the blade, and very
heavy.
“Stop cutting notches, Jantje, and let me look at that knife.”
He obeyed, and put it into her hand.
“That knife would kill a man, Jantje,” she said.
“Yes, yes,” he answered: “no doubt it has killed many men.”
“It would kill Frank Muller, now, would it not?” she went on, suddenly
bending forward and fixing her dark eyes upon the little man’s
jaundiced orbs.
“Yah, yah,” he said starting back, “it would kill him dead. Ah! what a
thing it would be to kill him!” he added, making a fierce sound, half
grunt, half laugh.
“He killed your father, Jantje.”
“Yah, yah, he killed my father,” said Jantje, his eyes beginning to
roll with rage.
“He killed your mother.”
“Yah, he killed my mother,” he repeated after her with eager ferocity.
“And your uncle. He killed your uncle.”
“And my uncle too,” he went on, shaking his fist and twitching his long
toes as his hoarse voice rose to a subdued scream. “But he will die in
blood—the old Englishwoman, his mother, said it when the devil was in
her, and the devils never lie. Look! I draw Baas Frank’s circle in the
dust with my foot; and listen, I say the words—I say the words,” and he
muttered something rapidly; “an old, old witch-doctor taught me how to
do it, and what to say. Once before I did it, and there was a stone in
the circle, now there is no stone: look, _the ends meet_. He will die
in blood; he will die _soon_. I know how to read the omen;” and he
gnashed his teeth and sawed the air with his clenched fists.
“Yes, you are right, Jantje,” she said, still holding him with her dark
eyes. “He will die in blood, and he will die to-night, and _you_ will
kill him, Jantje.”
The Hottentot started, and turned pale under his yellow skin.
“How?” he said; “how?”
“Bend forward, Jantje, and I will tell you how;” and Jess whispered for
some minutes into his ear.
“Yes! yes! yes!” he said when she had done. “Oh, what a fine thing it
is to be clever like the white people! I will kill him to-night, and
then I can cut out the notches, and the spooks of my father and my
mother and my uncle will stop howling round me in the dark as they do
now, when I am asleep.”