face, “I will pay you what I owe you, every farthing, with good
interest thrown in.”
“The king has just told me that is your intention,” I remarked quietly,
looking him full in the eyes. Then I walked on, leaving him staring
after me, apparently without a word to say.
I went straight to the hut that was allotted to Retief in the little
outlying guard-kraal, which had been given to us for a camp. Here I
found the commandant seated on a Kaffir stool engaged in painfully
writing a letter, using a bit of board placed on his knees as a desk.
He looked up, and asked me how I had got on with Dingaan, not being
sorry, as I think, of an excuse to pause in his clerical labours.
“Listen, commandant,” I said, and, speaking in a low voice, so as not
to be overheard, I told him every word that had passed in the
interviews I had just had with Dingaan, with Thomas Halstead, and with
Pereira.
He heard me out in silence, then said:
“This is a strange and ugly story, Allan, and if it is true, Pereira
must be an even bigger scoundrel than I thought him. But I can’t
believe that it is true. I think that Dingaan has been lying to you for
his own purposes; I mean about the plot to kill you.”
“Perhaps, commandant. I don’t know, and I don’t much care. But I am
sure that he was not lying when he said he meant to steal away my wife
either for himself or for Pereira.”
“What, then, do you intend to do, Allan?”
“I intend, commandant, with your permission to send Hans, my
after-rider, back to the camp with a letter for Marie, telling her to
remove herself quietly to the farm I have chosen down on the river, of
which I told you, and there to lie hid till I come back.”
“I think it needless, Allan. Still, if it will ease your mind, do so,
since I cannot spare you to go yourself. Only you must not send this
Hottentot, who would talk and frighten the people. I am despatching a
messenger to the camp to tell them of our safe arrival and good
reception by Dingaan. He can take your letter, in which I order you to
say to your wife that if she and the Prinsloos and the Meyers go to
this farm of yours, they are to go without talking, just as though they
wanted a change, that is all. Have the letter ready by dawn to-morrow
morning, as I trust mine may be,” he added with a groan.
“It shall be ready, commandant; but what about Hernan Pereira and his
tricks?”
“This about the accursed Hernan Pereira,” exclaimed Retief, striking
the writing-board with his fist. “On the first opportunity I will
myself take the evidence of Dingaan and of the English lad, Halstead.
If I find they tell me the same story they have told you, I will put
Pereira on his trial, as I threatened to do before; and should he be
found guilty, by God! I will have him shot. But for the present it is
best to do nothing, except keep an eye on him, lest we should cause
fear and scandal in the camp, and, after all, not prove the case. Now
go and write your letter, and leave me to write mine.”
So I went and wrote, telling Marie something, but by no means all of
that I have set down. I bade her, and the Prinsloos and the Meyers, if
they would accompany her, as I was sure they would, move themselves off
at once to the farm I had beaconed out thirty miles away from the
Bushman’s River, under pretence of seeing how the houses that were
being built there were getting on. Or if they would not go, I bade her
go alone with a few Hottentot servants, or any other companions she
could find.
This letter I took to Retief, and read it to him. At my request, also,
he scrawled at the foot of it:
“I have seen the above and approve it, knowing all the story, which may
be true or false. Do as your husband bids you, but do not talk of it in
the camp except to those whom he mentions.—PIETER RETIEF.”
So the messenger departed at dawn, and in due course delivered my
letter to Marie.
The next day was Sunday. In the morning I went to call upon the
Reverend Mr. Owen, the missionary, who was very glad to see me. He
informed me that Dingaan was in good mind towards us, and had been
asking him if he would write the treaty ceding the land which the Boers
wanted. I stopped for service at the huts of Mr. Owen, and then
returned to the camp. In the afternoon Dingaan celebrated a great war
dance for us to witness, in which about twelve thousand soldiers took
part.
It was a wonderful and awe-inspiring spectacle, and I remember that
each of the regiments employed had a number of trained oxen which
manoeuvred with them, apparently at given words of command. We did not
see Dingaan that day, except at a distance, and after the dance was
over returned to our camp to eat the beef which he had provided for us
in plenty.
On the third day—that was Monday, the 5th of February, there were more
dancings and sham fights, so many more, indeed, that we began to weary
of this savage show. Late in the afternoon, however, Dingaan sent for
the commandant and his men to come to see him, saying that he wished to
talk with him about the matter of the treaty. So we went; but only
three or four, of whom I was one, were admitted to Dingaan’s presence,
the rest remaining at a little distance, where they could see us but
were out of earshot.
Dingaan then produced a paper which had been written by the Reverend
Mr. Owen. This document, which I believe still exists, for it was found
afterwards, was drawn up in legal or semi-legal form, beginning like a
proclamation, “Know all men.”
It ceded “the place called Port Natal, together with all the land
annexed—that is to say, from Tugela to the Umzimvubu River westward,
and from the sea to the north”—to the Boers, “for their everlasting
property.” At the king’s request, as the deed was written in English by
Mr. Owen, I translated it to him, and afterwards the lad Halstead
translated it also, being called in to do so when I had finished.
This was done that my rendering might be checked, and the fact
impressed all the Boers very favourably. It showed them that the king
desired to understand exactly what he was to sign, which would not have
been the case had he intended any trick or proposed to cheat them
afterwards. From that moment forward Retief and his people had no
further doubts as to Dingaan’s good faith in this matter, and foolishly
relaxed all precautions against treachery.
When the translating was finished, the commandant asked the king if he
would sign the paper then and there. He answered, “No; he would sign it
on the following morning, before the commission returned to Natal.” It
was then that Retief inquired of Dingaan, through Thomas Halstead,
whether it was a true story which he had heard, that the Boer called
Pereira, who had been staying with him, and whom the Zulus knew by the
name of “Two-faces,” had again asked him, Dingaan, to have me, Allan
Quatermain, whom they called Macumazahn, killed. Dingaan laughed and
answered:
“Yes, that is true enough, for he hates this Macumazahn. But let the
little white Son of George have no fear, since my heart is soft towards
him, and I swear by the head of the Black One that he shall come to no
harm in Zululand. Is he not my guest, as you are?”
He then went on to say that if the commandant wished it, he would have
“Two-faces” seized and killed because he had dared to ask for my life.
Retief answered that he would look into that matter himself, and after
Thomas Halstead had confirmed the king’s story as to Pereira’s conduct,
he rose and said good-bye to Dingaan.
Of this matter of Hernan Pereira, Retief said little as we went back to
the camp outside the Kraal, though the little that he did say showed
his deep anger. When we arrived at the camp, however, he sent for
Pereira and Marais and several of the older Boers. I remember that
among these were Gerrit Bothma, Senior, Hendrik Labuschagne and Matthys
Pretorius, Senior, all of them persons of standing and judgment. I also
was ordered to be present. When Pereira arrived, Retief charged him
openly with having plotted my murder, and asked him what he had to say.
Of course, his answer was a flat denial, and an accusation against me
of having invented the tale because we had been at enmity over a maiden
whom I had since married.
“Then, Mynheer Pereira,” said Retief, “as Allan Quatermain here has won
the maiden who is now his wife, it would seem that his cause of enmity
must have ceased, whereas yours may well have remained. However, I have
no time to try cases of the sort now. But I warn you that this one will
be looked into later on when we get back to Natal, whither I shall take
you with me, and that meanwhile an eye is kept on you and what you do.
Also I warn you that I have evidence for all that I say. Now be so good
as to go, and to keep out of my sight as much as possible, for I do not
like a man whom these Kaffirs name ‘Two-faces.’ As for you, friend
Henri Marais, I tell you that you would do well to associate yourself
less with one whose name is under so dark a cloud, although he may be
your own nephew, whom all know you love blindly.”
So far as I recollect neither of them made any answer to this direct
speech. They simply turned and went away. But on the next morning, that
of the fatal 6th of February, when I chanced to meet the Commandant
Retief as he was riding through the camp making arrangements for our
departure to Natal, he pulled up his horse and said:
“Allan, Hernan Pereira has gone, and Henri Marais with him, and for my
part I am not sorry, for doubtless we shall meet again, in this world
or the next, and find out all the truth. Here, read this, and give it
back to me afterwards”; and he threw me a paper and rode on.
I opened the folded sheet and read as follows:
“To the Commandant Retief, Governor of the Emigrant Boers,
“Mynheer Commandant,
“I will not stay here, where such foul accusations are laid on me by
black Kaffirs and the Englishman, Allan Quatermain, who, like all his
race, is an enemy of us Boers, and, although you do not know it, a
traitor who is plotting great harm against you with the Zulus.
Therefore I leave you, but am ready to meet every charge at the right
time before a proper Court. My uncle, Henri Marais, comes with me, as
he feels that his honour is also touched. Moreover, he has heard that
his daughter, Marie, is in danger from the Zulus, and returns to
protect her, which he who is called her husband neglects to do. Allan
Quatermain, the Englishman, who is the friend of Dingaan, can explain
what I mean, for he knows more about the Zulu plans than I do, as you
will find out before the end.”
Then followed the signatures of Hernan Pereira and Henri Marais.
I put the letter in my pocket, wondering what might be its precise
meaning, and in particular that of the absurd and undefined charge of
treachery against myself. It seemed to me that Pereira had left us
because he was afraid of something—either that he might be placed upon
his trial or of some ultimate catastrophe in which he would be
involved. Marais probably had gone with him for the same reason that a
bit of iron follows a magnet, because he never could resist the
attraction of this evil man, his relative by birth. Or perhaps he had
learned from him the story of his daughter’s danger, upon which I had
already acted, and really was anxious about her safety. For it must
always be remembered that Marais loved Marie passionately, however ill
the reader of this history may think that he behaved to her. She was
his darling, the apple of his eye, and her great offence in his sight
was that she cared for me more than she did for him. That is one of the
reasons why he hated me as much as he loved her.
Almost before I had finished reading this letter, the order came that
we were to go in a body to bid farewell to Dingaan, leaving our arms
piled beneath the two milk trees at the gate of the town. Most of our
after-riders were commanded to accompany us—I think because Retief
wished to make as big a show as possible to impress the Zulus. A few of
these Hottentots, however, were told to stay behind that they might
collect the horses, that were knee-haltered and grazing at a distance,
and saddle them up. Among these was Hans, for, as it chanced, I saw and
sent him with the others, so that I might be sure that my own horses
would be found and made ready for the journey.
Just as we were starting, I met the lad William Wood, who had come down
from the Mission huts, where he lived with Mr. Owen, and was wandering
about with an anxious face.
“How are you, William?” I asked.
“Not very well, Mr. Quatermain,” he answered. “The fact is,” he added
with a burst of confidence, “I feel queerly about you all. The Kaffirs
have told me that something is going to happen to you, and I think you
ought to know it. I daren’t say any more,” and he vanished into the
crowd.
At that moment I caught sight of Retief riding to and fro and shouting
out orders. Going to him, I caught him by the sleeve, saying:
“Commandant, listen to me.”
“Well, what is it now, nephew?” he asked absently.
I told him what Wood had said, adding that I also was uneasy; I did not
know why.
“Oh!” he answered with impatience, “this is all hailstones and burnt
grass” (meaning that the one would melt and the other blow away, or in
our English idiom, stuff and rubbish). “Why are you always trying to
scare me with your fancies, Allan? Dingaan is our friend, not our
enemy. So let us take the gifts that fortune gives us and be thankful.
Come, march.”
This he said about eight o’clock in the morning.
We strolled through the gates of the Great Kraal, most of the Boers,
who, as usual, had piled their arms under the two milk trees, lounging
along in knots of four or five, laughing and chatting as they went. I
have often thought since, that although every one of them there, except
myself, was doomed within an hour to have taken the dreadful step from
time into eternity, it seems strange that advancing fate should have
thrown no shadow on their hearts. On the contrary, they were quite gay,
being extremely pleased at the successful issue of their mission and
the prospect of an immediate return to their wives and children. Even
Retief was gay, for I heard him joking with his companions about myself
and my “white-bread-week,” or honeymoon, which, he said, was drawing
very near.
As we went, I noticed that most of the regiments who had performed the
great military dances before us on the previous day were gone. Two,
however, remained—the _Ischlangu Inhlope_, that is the “White Shields,”
who were a corps of veterans wearing the ring on their heads, and the
_Ischlangu Umnyama_, that is the “Black Shields,” who were all of them
young men without rings. The “White Shields” were ranged along the
fence of the great open place to our left, and the “Black Shields” were
similarly placed to our right, each regiment numbering about fifteen
hundred men. Except for their kerries and dancing-sticks they were
unarmed.
Presently we reached the head of the dancing ground, and found Dingaan
seated in his chair with two of his great _indunas_, Umhlela and
Tambusa, squatting on either side of him. Behind him, standing in and
about the entrance to the labyrinth through which the king had come,
were other _indunas_ and captains. On arriving in front of Dingaan we
saluted him, and he acknowledged the salutation with pleasant words and
smiles. Then Retief, two or three of the other Boers, Thomas Halstead
and I went forward, whereon the treaty was produced again and
identified as the same document that we had seen on the previous day.
At the foot of it someone—I forget who—wrote in Dutch, “_De merk van
Koning Dingaan_” [that is, The mark of King Dingaan.] In the space left
between the words “_merk_” and “_van_” Dingaan made a cross with a pen
that was given to him, Thomas Halstead holding his hand and showing him
what to do.
After this, three of his indunas, or great councillors, who were named
Nwara, Yuliwana and Manondo, testified as witnesses for the Zulus, and
M. Oosthuyzen, A. C. Greyling and B. J. Liebenberg, who were standing
nearest to Retief, as witnesses for the Boers.
This done, Dingaan ordered one of his _isibongos_, or praisers, to run
to and fro in front of the regiments and others there assembled, and
proclaim that he had granted Natal to the Boers to be their property
for ever, information which the Zulus received with shouts. Then
Dingaan asked Retief if he would not eat, and large trenchers of boiled
beef were brought out and handed round. This, however, the Boers
refused, saying they had already breakfasted. Thereon the king said
that at least they must drink, and pots of _twala_, or Kaffir beer,
were handed round, of which all the Boers partook.
While they were drinking, Dingaan gave Retief a message to the Dutch
farmers, to the effect that he hoped they would soon come and occupy
Natal, which henceforth was their country. Also, black-hearted villain
that he was, that they would have a pleasant journey home. Next he
ordered the two regiments to dance and sing war songs, in order to
amuse his guests.
This they began to do, drawing nearer as they danced.
It was at this moment that a Zulu appeared, pushing his way through the
captains who were gathered at the gate of the labyrinth, and delivered
some message to one of the _indunas_, who in turn passed it on to the
king.
“_Ow!_ is it so?” said the king with a troubled look. Then his glance
fell on me as though by accident, and he added: “Macumazahn, one of my
wives is taken very ill suddenly, and says she must have some of the
medicine of the white men before they go away. Now, you tell me that
you are a new-married man, so I can trust you with my wives. I pray you
to go and find out what medicine it is that she needs, for you can
speak our tongue.”
I hesitated, then translated what he had said to Retief.
“You had best go, nephew,” said the commandant; “but come back quickly,
for we ride at once.”
Still I hesitated, not liking this business; whereon the king began to
grow angry.
“What!” he said, “do you white men refuse me this little favour, when I
have just given you so much—you who have wonderful medicines that can
cure the sick?”
“Go, Allan, go,” said Retief, when he understood his words, “or he will
grow cross and everything may be undone.”
So, having no choice, I went through the gateway into the labyrinth.
Next moment men pounced on me, and before I could utter a word a cloth
was thrown over my mouth and tied tight behind my head.
I was a prisoner and gagged.
CHAPTER XIX.
DEPART IN PEACE
A tall Kaffir, one of the king’s household guards, who carried an
assegai, came up to me and whispered:
“Hearken, little Son of George. The king would save you, if he can,
because you are not Dutch, but English. Yet, know that if you try to
cry out, if you even struggle, you die,” and he lifted the assegai so
as to be ready to plunge it through my heart.
Now I understood, and a cold sweat broke out all over me. My companions
were to be murdered, every one! Oh! gladly would I have given my life
to warn them. But alas! I could not, for the cloth upon my mouth was so
thick that no sound could pass it.
One of the Zulus inserted a stick between the reeds of the fence.
Working it to and fro sideways, he made an opening just in a line with
my eyes—out of cruelty, I suppose, for now I must see everything.
For some time—ten minutes, I dare say—the dancing and beer-drinking
went on. Then Dingaan rose from his chair and shook the hand of Retief
warmly, bidding him “_Hamba gachlé_,” that is, Depart gently, or in
peace. He retreated towards the gate of the labyrinth, and as he went
the Boers took off their hats, waving them in the air and cheering him.
He was almost through it, and I began to breathe again.
Doubtless I was mistaken. After all, no treachery was intended.
In the very opening of the gate Dingaan turned, however, and said two
words in Zulu which mean:
“Seize them!”
Instantly the warriors, who had now danced quite close and were waiting
for these words, rushed upon the Boers. I heard Thomas Halstead call
out in English:
“We are done for,” and then add in Zulu, “Let me speak to the king!”
Dingaan heard also, and waved his hand to show that he refused to
listen, and as he did so shouted thrice:
“_Bulala abatagati!_” that is, Slay the wizards!
I saw poor Halstead draw his knife and plunge it into a Zulu who was
near him. The man fell, and again he struck at another soldier, cutting
his throat. The Boers also drew their knives—those of them who had
time—and tried to defend themselves against these black devils, who
rushed on them in swarms. I heard afterwards that they succeeded in
killing six or eight of them and wounding perhaps a score. But it was
soon over, for what could men armed only with pocket-knives do against
such a multitude?
Presently, amidst a hideous tumult of shouts, groans, curses, prayers
for mercy, and Zulu battle cries, the Boers were all struck down—yes,
even the two little lads and the Hottentot servants. Then they were
dragged away, still living, by the soldiers, their heels trailing on
the ground, just as wounded worms or insects are dragged by the black
ants.
Dingaan was standing by me now, laughing, his fat face working
nervously.
“Come, Son of George,” he said, “and let us see the end of these
traitors to your sovereign.”
Then I was pulled along to an eminence within the labyrinth, whence
there was a view of the surrounding country. Here we waited a little
while, listening to the tumult that grew more distant, till presently
the dreadful procession of death reappeared, coming round the fence of
the Great Kraal and heading straight for the Hill of Slaughter, Hloma
Amabutu. Soon its slopes were climbed, and there among the dark-leaved
bushes and the rocks the black soldiers butchered them, every one.
I saw and swooned away.
I believe that I remained senseless for many hours, though towards the
end of that time my swoon grew thin, as it were, and I heard a hollow
voice speaking over me in Zulu.
“I am glad that the little Son of George has been saved,” said the
echoing voice, which I did not know, “for he has a great destiny and
will be useful to the black people in time to come.” Then the voice
went on:
“O House of Senzangacona! now you have mixed your milk with blood, with
white blood. Of that bowl you shall drink to the dregs, and afterwards
must the bowl be shattered”; and the speaker laughed—a deep, dreadful
laugh that I was not to hear again for years.
I heard him go away, shuffling along like some great reptile, and then,
with an effort, opened my eyes. I was in a large hut, and the only
light in the hut came from a fire that burned in its centre, for it was
night time. A Zulu woman, young and good-looking, was bending over a
gourd near the fire, doing something to its contents. I spoke to her
light-headedly.
“O woman,” I said, “is that a man who laughed over me?”
“Not altogether, Macumazahn,” she answered in a pleasant voice. “That
was Zikali, the Mighty Magician, the Counsellor of Kings, the Opener of
Roads; he whose birth our grandfathers do not remember; he whose breath
causes the trees to be torn out by the roots; he whom Dingaan fears and
obeys.”
“Did he cause the Boers to be killed?” I asked.
“Mayhap,” she answered. “Who am I that I should know of such matters?”
“Are you the woman who was sick whom I was sent to visit?” I asked
again.
“Yes, Macumazahn, I was sick, but now I am well and you are sick, for
so things go round. Drink this,” and she handed me a gourd of milk.
“How are you named?” I inquired as I took it.
“Naya is my name,” she replied, “and I am your jailer. Don’t think that
you can escape me, though, Macumazahn, for there are other jailers
without who carry spears. Drink.”
So I drank and bethought me that the draught might be poisoned. Yet so
thirsty was I that I finished it, every drop.
“Now am I a dead man?” I asked, as I put down the gourd.
“No, no, Macumazahn,” she who called herself Naya replied in a soft
voice; “not a dead man, only one who will sleep and forget.”
Then I lost count of everything and slept—for how long I know not.
When I awoke again it was broad daylight; in fact, the sun stood high
in the heavens. Perhaps Naya had put some drug into my milk, or perhaps
I had simply slept. I do not know. At any rate, I was grateful for that
sleep, for without it I think that I should have gone mad. As it was,
when I remembered, which it took me some time to do, for a while I went
near to insanity.
I recollect lying there in that hut and wondering how the Almighty
could have permitted such a deed as I had seen done. How could it be
reconciled with any theory of a loving and merciful Father? Those poor
Boers, whatever their faults, and they had many, like the rest of us,
were in the main good and honest men according to their lights. Yet
they had been doomed to be thus brutally butchered at the nod of a
savage despot, their wives widowed, their children left fatherless, or,
as it proved in the end, in most cases murdered or orphaned!
The mystery was too great—great enough to throw off its balance the
mind of a young man who had witnessed such a fearsome scene as I have
described.
For some days really I think that my reason hung just upon the edge of
that mental precipice. In the end, however, reflection and education,
of which I had a certain amount, thanks to my father, came to my aid. I
recalled that such massacres, often on an infinitely larger scale, had
happened a thousand times in history, and that still through them,
often, indeed, by means of them, civilisation has marched forward, and
mercy and peace have kissed each other over the bloody graves of the
victims.
Therefore even in my youth and inexperience I concluded that some
ineffable purpose was at work through this horror, and that the lives
of those poor men which had been thus sacrificed were necessary to that
purpose. This may appear a dreadful and fatalistic doctrine, but it is
one that is corroborated in Nature every day, and doubtless the
sufferers meet with their compensations in some other state. Indeed, if
it be not so, faith and all the religions are vain.
Or, of course, it may chance that such monstrous calamities happen, not
through the will of the merciful Power of which I have spoken, but in
its despite. Perhaps the devil of Scripture, at whom we are inclined to
smile, is still very real and active in this world of ours. Perhaps
from time to time some evil principle breaks into eruption, like the
prisoned forces of a volcano, bearing death and misery on its wings,
until in the end it must depart strengthless and overcome. Who can say?
The question is one that should be referred to the Archbishop of
Canterbury and the Pope of Rome in conclave, with the Lama of Thibet
for umpire in case they disagreed. I only try to put down the thoughts
that struck me so long ago as my mind renders them to-day. But very
likely they are not quite the same thoughts, for a full generation has
gone by me since then, and in that time the intelligence ripens as wine
does in a bottle.
Besides these general matters, I had questions of my own to consider
during those days of imprisonment—for instance, that of my own safety,
though of this, to be honest, I thought little. If I were going to be
killed, I was going to be killed, and there was an end. But my
knowledge of Dingaan told me that he had not massacred Retief and his
companions for nothing. This would be but the prelude to a larger
slaughter, for I had not forgotten what he said as to the sparing of
Marie and the other hints he gave me.
From all this I concluded, quite rightly as it proved, that some
general onslaught was being made upon the Boers, who probably would be
swept out to the last man. And to think that here I was, a prisoner in
a Kaffir kraal, with only a young woman as a jailer, and yet utterly
unable to escape to warn them. For round my hut lay a courtyard, and
round it again ran a reed fence about five feet six inches high.
Whenever I looked over this fence, by night or by day, I saw soldiers
stationed at intervals of about fifteen yards. There they stood like
statues, their broad spears in their hands, all looking inwards towards
the fence. There they stood—only at night their number was doubled.
Clearly it was not meant that I should escape.
A week went by thus—believe me, a very terrible week. During that time
my sole companion was the pretty young woman, Naya. We became friends
in a way and talked on a variety of subjects. Only, at the end of our
conversations I always found that I had gained no information
whatsoever about any matter of immediate interest. On such points as
the history of the Zulu and kindred tribes, or the character of Chaka,
the great king, or anything else that was remote she would discourse by
the hour. But when we came to current events, she dried up like water
on a red-hot brick. Still, Naya grew, or pretended to grow, quite
attached to me. She even suggested naïvely that I might do worse than
marry her, which she said Dingaan was quite ready to allow, as he was
fond of me and thought I should be useful in his country. When I told
her that I was already married, she shrugged her shining shoulders and
asked with a laugh that revealed her beautiful teeth:
“What does that matter? Cannot a man have more wives than one? And,
Macumazahn,” she added, leaning forward and looking at me, “how do you
know that you have even one? You may be divorced or a widower by now.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“I? I mean nothing; do not look at me so fiercely, Macumazahn. Surely
such things happen in the world, do they not?”
“Naya,” I said, “you are two bad things—a bait and a spy—and you know
it.”
“Perhaps I do, Macumazahn,” she answered. “Am I to blame for that, if
my life is on it, especially when I really like you for yourself?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “Tell me, when am I going to get out of this
place?”
“How can I tell you, Macumazahn?” Naya replied, patting my hand in her
genial way, “but I think before long. When you are gone, Macumazahn,
remember me kindly sometimes, as I have really tried to make you as
comfortable as I could with a watcher staring through every straw in
the hut.”
I said whatever seemed to be appropriate, and next morning my
deliverance came. While I was eating my breakfast in the courtyard at
the back of the hut, Naya thrust her handsome and pleasant face round
the corner and said that there was a messenger to see me from the king.
Leaving the rest of the meal unswallowed, I went to the doorway of the
yard and there found my old friend, Kambula.
“Greeting, _Inkoos_,” he said to me; “I am come to take you back to
Natal with a guard. But I warn you to ask me no questions, for if you
do I must not answer them. Dingaan is ill, and you cannot see him, nor
can you see the white praying-man, or anyone; you must come with me at
once.”
“I do not want to see Dingaan,” I replied, looking him in the eyes.
“I understand,” answered Kambula; “Dingaan’s thoughts are his thoughts
and your thoughts are your thoughts, and perhaps that is why he does
not want to see _you_. Still, remember, _Inkoos_, that Dingaan has
saved your life, snatching you unburned out of a very great fire,
perhaps because you are of a different sort of wood, which he thinks it
a pity to burn. Now, if you are ready, let us go.”
“I am ready,” I answered.
At the gate I met Naya, who said:
“You never thought to say good-bye to me, White Man, although I have
tended you well. Ah! what else could I expect? Still, I hope that if I
should have to fly from this land for _my_ life, as may chance, you
will do for me what I have done for you.”
“That I will,” I answered, shaking her by the hand; and, as it
happened, in after years I did.
Kambula led me, not through the kraal Umgungundhlovu, but round it. Our
road lay immediately past the death mount, Hloma Amabutu, where the
vultures were still gathered in great numbers. Indeed, it was actually
my lot to walk over the new-picked bones of some of my companions who
had been despatched at the foot of the hill. One of these skeletons I
recognised by his clothes to be that of Samuel Esterhuizen, a very good
fellow, at whose side I had slept during all our march. His empty
eye-sockets seemed to stare at me reproachfully, as though they asked
me why I remained alive when he and all his brethren were dead. I
echoed the question in my own mind. Why of that great company did I
alone remain alive?
An answer seemed to rise within me: That I might be one of the
instruments of vengeance upon that devilish murderer, Dingaan. Looking
upon those poor shattered and desecrated frames that had been men, I
swore in my heart that if I lived I would not fail in that mission. Nor
did I fail, although the history of that great repayment cannot be told
in these pages.
Turning my eyes from this dreadful sight, I saw that on the opposite
slope, where we had camped during our southern trek from Delagoa, still
stood the huts and wagons of the Reverend Mr. Owen. I asked Kambula
whether he and his people were also dead.
“No, _Inkoos_,” he answered; “they are of the Children of George, as
you are, and therefore the king has spared them, although he is going
to send them out of the country.”
This was good news, so far as it went, and I asked again if Thomas
Halstead had also been spared, since he, too, was an Englishman.
“No,” said Kambula. “The king wished to save him, but he killed two of
our people and was dragged off with the rest. When the slayers got to
their work it was too late to stay their hands.”
Again I asked whether I might not join Mr. Owen and trek with him, to
which Kambula answered briefly:
“No, Macumazahn; the king’s orders are that you must go by yourself.”
So I went; nor did I ever again meet Mr. Owen or any of his people. I
believe, however, that they reached Durban safely and sailed away in a
ship called the _Comet_.
In a little while we came to the two milk trees by the main gate of the
kraal, where much of our saddlery still lay scattered about, though the
guns had gone. Here Kambula asked me if I could recognise my own
saddle.
“There it is,” I answered, pointing to it; “but what is the use of a
saddle without a horse?”
“The horse you rode has been kept for you, Macumazahn,” he replied.
Then he ordered one of the men with us to bring the saddle and bridle,
also some other articles which I selected, such as a couple of
blankets, a water-bottle, two tins containing coffee and sugar, a
little case of medicines, and so forth.
About a mile further on I found one of my horses tethered by an
outlying guard hut, and noted that it had been well fed and cared for.
By Kambula’s leave I saddled it and mounted. As I did so, he warned me
that if I tried to ride away from the escort I should certainly be
killed, since even if I escaped them, orders had been given throughout
the land to put an end to me should I be seen alone.
I replied that, unarmed as I was, I had no idea of making any such
attempt. So we went forward, Kambula and his soldiers walking or
trotting at my side.
For four full days we journeyed thus, keeping, so far as I could judge,
about twenty or thirty miles to the east of that road by which I had
left Zululand before and re-entered it with Retief and his commission.
Evidently I was an object of great interest to the Zulus of the country
through which we passed, perhaps because they knew me to be the sole
survivor of all the white men who had gone up to visit the king. They
would come down in crowds from the kraals and stare at me almost with
awe, as though I were a spirit and not a man. Only, not one of them
would say anything to me, probably because they had been forbidden to
do so. Indeed, if I spoke to any of them, invariably they turned and
walked or ran out of hearing.
It was on the evening of the fourth day that Kambula and his soldiers
received some news which seemed to excite them a great deal. A
messenger in a state of exhaustion, who had an injury to the fleshy
part of his left arm, which looked to me as though it had been caused
by a bullet, appeared out of the bush and said something of which, by
straining my ears, I caught two words—“Great slaughter.” Then Kambula
laid his fingers on his lips as a signal for silence and led the man
away, nor did I see or hear any more of him. Afterwards I asked Kambula
who had suffered this great slaughter, whereon he stared at me
innocently and replied that he did not know of what I was speaking.
“What is the use of lying to me, Kambula, seeing that I shall find out
the truth before long?”
“Then, Macumazahn, wait till you do find it out, and may it please
you,” he replied, and went off to speak with his people at a distance.
All that night I heard them talking off and on—I, who lay awake plunged
into new miseries. I was sure that some other dreadful thing had
happened. Probably Dingaan’s armies had destroyed all the Boers, and,
if so, oh! what had become of Marie? Was she dead, or had she perhaps
been taken prisoner, as Dingaan had told me would be done for his own
vile purposes? For aught I knew she might now be travelling under
escort to Umgungundhlovu, as I was travelling to Natal.
The morning came at last, and that day, about noon, we reached a ford
of the Tugela which luckily was quite passable. Here Kambula bade me
farewell, saying that his mission was finished. Also he delivered to me
a message that I was to give from Dingaan to the English in Natal. It
was to this effect: That he, Dingaan, had killed the Boers who came to
visit him because he found out that they were traitors to their chief,
and therefore not worthy to live. But that he loved the Sons of George,
who were true-hearted people, and therefore had nothing to fear from
him. Indeed, he begged them to come and see him at his Great Place,
where he would talk matters over with them.
I said that I would deliver the message if I met any English people,
but, of course, I could not say whether they would accept Dingaan’s
invitation to Umgungundhlovu. Indeed, I feared lest that town might
have acquired such a bad name that they would prefer not to come there
without an army.
Then, before Kambula had time to take any offence, I shook his
outstretched hand and urged my horse into the stream. I never met
Kambula again living, though after the battle of Blood River I saw him
dead.
Once over the Tugela I rode forward for half a mile or so till I was
clear of the bush and reeds that grew down to the water, fearing lest
the Zulus should follow and take me back to Dingaan to explain my
rather imprudent message. Seeing no signs of them, I halted, a desolate
creature in a desolate country which I did not know, wondering what I
should do and whither I should ride. Then it was that there happened
one of the strangest experiences of all my adventurous life.
As I sat dejectedly upon my horse, which was also dejected, amidst some
tumbled rocks that at a distant period in the world’s history had
formed the bank of the great river, I heard a voice which seemed
familiar to me say:
“Baas, is that _you_, baas?”
I looked round and could see no one, so, thinking that I had been
deceived by my imagination, I held my peace.
“Baas,” said the voice again, “are you dead or are you alive? Because,
if you are dead, I don’t want to have anything to do with spooks until
I am obliged.”
Now I answered, “Who is it that speaks, and whence?” though, really, as
I could see no one, I thought that I must be demented.
The next moment my horse snorted and shied violently, and no wonder,
for out of a great ant-bear hole not five paces away appeared a yellow
face crowned with black wool, in which was set a broken feather. I
looked at the face and the face looked at me.
“Hans,” I said, “is it you? I thought that _you_ were killed with the
others.”
“And I thought that _you_ were killed with the others, baas. Are you
sure that you are alive?”
“What are you doing there, you old fool?” I asked.
“Hiding from the Zulus, baas. I heard them on the other bank, and then
saw a man on a horse crossing the river, and went to ground like a
jackal. I have had enough of Zulus.”
“Come out,” I said, “and tell me your story.”
He emerged, a thin and bedraggled creature, with nothing left on him
but the upper part of a pair of old trousers, but still Hans,
undoubtedly Hans. He ran to me, and seizing my foot, kissed it again
and again, weeping tears of joy and stuttering:
“Oh, baas, to think that I should find you who were dead, alive, and
find myself alive, too. Oh! baas, never again will I doubt about the
Big Man in the sky of whom your reverend father is so fond. For after I
had tried all our own spirits, and even those of my ancestors, and met
with nothing but trouble, I said the prayer that the reverend taught
us, asking for my daily bread because I am so very hungry. Then I
looked out of the hole and there you were. Have you anything to eat
about you, baas?”
As it chanced, in my saddle-bags I had some biltong that I had saved
against emergencies. I gave it to him, and he devoured it as a famished
hyena might do, tearing off the tough meat in lumps and bolting them
whole. When it was all gone he licked his fingers and his lips and
stood still staring at me.
“Tell me your story,” I repeated.
“Baas, I went to fetch the horses with the others, and ours had
strayed. I got up a tree to look for them. Then I heard a noise, and
saw that the Zulus were killing the Boers; so knowing that presently
they would kill us, too, I stopped in that tree, hiding myself as well
as I could in a stork’s nest. Well, they came and assegaied all the
other Totties, and stood under my tree cleaning their spears and
getting their breath, for one of my brothers had given them a good run.
But they never saw me, although I was nearly sick from fear on the top
of them. Indeed, I was sick, but into the nest.
“Well, I sat in that nest all day, though the sun cooked me like beef
on a stick; and when night came I got down and ran, for I knew it was
no good to stop to look for you, and ‘every man for himself when a
black devil is behind you,’ as your reverend father says. All night I
ran, and in the morning hid up in a hole. Then when night came again I
went on running. Oh! they nearly caught me once or twice, but never
quite, for I know how to hide, and I kept where men do not go. Only I
was hungry, hungry; yes, I lived on snails and worms, and grass like an
ox, till my middle ached. Still, at last I got across the river and
near to the camp.
“Then just before the day broke and I was saying, ‘Now, Hans, although
your heart is sad, your stomach will rejoice and sing,’ what did I see
but those Zulu devils, thousands of them, rush down on the camp and
kill all the poor Boers. Men and women and the little children, they
killed them by the hundred, till at last other Boers came and drove
them away, although they took all the cattle with them. Well, as I was
sure that they would come back, I did not stop there. I ran down to the
side of the river, and have been crawling about in the reeds for days,
living on the eggs of water-birds and a few small fish that I caught in
the pools, till this morning, when I heard the Zulus again and slipped
up here into this hole. Then you came and stood over the hole, and for
a long while I thought you were a ghost.
“But now we are together once more and all is right, just as what your
reverend father always said it would be with those who go to church on
Sunday, like me when there was nothing else to do.” And again he fell
to kissing my foot.
“Hans,” I said, “you saw the camp. Was the Missie Marie there?”
“Baas, how can I tell, who never went into it? But the wagon she slept
in was not there; no, nor that of the Vrouw Prinsloo or of the Heer
Meyer.”
“Thank God!” I gasped, then added: “Where were you trying to get to,
Hans, when you ran away from the camp?”
“Baas, I thought perhaps that the Missie and the Prinsloos and the
Meyers had gone to that fine farm which you pegged out, and that I
would go and see if they were there. Because if so, I was sure that
they would be glad to know that you were really dead, and give me some
food in payment for my news. But I was afraid to walk across the open
veld for fear lest the Zulus should see me and kill me. Therefore I
came round through the thick bush along the river, where one can only
travel slowly, especially if hollow,” and he patted his wasted stomach.
“But, Hans,” I asked, “are we near my farm where I set the men to build
the houses on the hill above the river?”
“Of course, baas. Has your brain gone soft that you cannot find your
way about the veld? Four, or at most five, hours on horseback, riding
slow, and you are there.”
“Come on, Hans,” I said, “and be quick, for I think that the Zulus are
not far behind.”
So we started, Hans hanging to my stirrup and guiding me, for I knew
well enough that although he had never travelled this road, his
instinct for locality would not betray a coloured man, who can find his
way across the pathless veld as surely as a buck or a bird of the air.
On we went over the rolling plain, and as we travelled I told him my
story, briefly enough, for my mind was too torn with fears to allow me
to talk much. He, too, told me more of his escape and adventures. Now I
understood what was that news which had so excited Kambula and his
soldiers. It was evident that the Zulu impis had destroyed a great
number of the Boers whom they found unprepared for attack, and then had
been driven off by reinforcements that arrived from other camps.
That was why I had been kept prisoner for all those days. Dingaan
feared lest I should reach Natal in time to warn his victims!
CHAPTER XX.
THE COURT-MARTIAL
One hour, two hours, three hours, and then suddenly from the top of a
rise the sight of the beautiful Mooi River winding through the plain
like a vast snake of silver, and there, in a loop of it, the
flat-crested koppie on which I had hoped to make my home. Had
hoped!—why should I not still hope? For aught I knew everything might
yet be well. Marie might have escaped the slaughter as I had done, and
if so, after all our troubles perchance many years of life and
happiness awaited us. Only it seemed too good to be true.
I flogged my horse, but the poor beast was tired out and could only
break into short canters, that soon lapsed to a walk again. But whether
it cantered or whether it walked, its hoofs seemed to beat out the
words—“Too good to be true!” Sometimes they beat them fast, and
sometimes they beat them slow, but always their message seemed the
same.
Hans, too, was outworn and weak from starvation. Also he had a cut upon
his foot which hampered him so much that at last he said I had better
go on alone; he would follow more slowly. Then I dismounted and set him
on the horse, walking by it myself.
Thus it came about that the gorgeous sunset was finished and the sky
had grown grey with night before we reached the foot of the koppie. Yet
the last rays of the sinking orb had shown me something as they died.
There on the slope of the hill stood some mud and wattle houses, such
as I had ordered to be built, and near to them several white-capped
wagons. Only I did not see any smoke rising from those houses as there
should have been at this hour of the day, when men cooked their evening
food. The moon would be up presently, I knew, but meanwhile it was dark
and the tired horse stumbled and floundered among the stones which lay
about at the foot of the hill.
I could bear it no longer.
“Hans,” I said, “do you stay here with the horse. I will creep to the
houses and see if any dwell there.”
“Be careful, baas,” he answered, “lest you should find Zulus, for those
black devils are all about.”
I nodded, for I could not speak, and then began the ascent. For several
hundred yards I crept from stone to stone, feeling my way, for the
Kaffir path that led to the little plateau where the spring was, above
which the shanties stood, ran at the other end of the hill. I struck
the spruit or rivulet that was fed by this spring, being guided to it
by the murmur of the water, and followed up its bank till I heard a
sound which caused me to crouch and listen.
I could not be sure because of the ceaseless babble of the brook, but
the sound seemed like that of sobs. While I waited the great moon
appeared suddenly above a bank of inky cloud, flooding the place with
light, and oh! by that light, looking more ethereal than woman I saw—I
saw Marie!
She stood not five paces from me, by the side of the stream, whither
she had come to draw water, for she held a vessel in her hand. She was
clothed in some kind of a black garment, such as widows wear, but made
of rough stuff, and above it her face showed white in the white rays of
the moon. Gazing at her from the shadow, I could even see the tears
running down her cheeks, for it was she who wept in this lonely place,
wept for one who would return no more.
My voice choked in my throat; I could not utter a single word. Rising
from behind a rock I moved towards her. She saw me and started, then
said in a thrilling whisper:
“Oh! husband, has God sent you to call me? I am ready, husband, I am
ready!” and she stretched out her arms wildly, letting fall the vessel,
that clanked upon the ground.
“Marie!” I gasped at length; and at that word the blood rushed to her
face and brow, and I saw her draw in her breath as though to scream.
“Hush!” I whispered. “It is I, Allan, who have escaped alive.”
The next thing I remember was that she lay in my arms.
“What has happened here?” I asked when I had told my tale, or some of
it.
“Nothing, Allan,” she answered. “I received your letter at the camp,
and we trekked away as you bade us, without telling the others why,
because you remember the Commandant Retief wrote to us not to do so. So
we were out of the great slaughter, for the Zulus did not know where we
had gone, and never followed us here, although I have heard that they
sought for me. My father and my cousin Hernan only arrived at the camp
two days after the attack, and discovering or guessing our
hiding-place—I know not which—rode on hither. They say they came to
warn the Boers to be careful, for they did not trust Dingaan, but were
too late. So they too were out of the slaughter, for, Allan, many, many
have been killed—they say five or six hundred, most of them women and
children. But thank God! many more escaped, since the men came in from
the other camps farther off and from their shooting parties, and drove
away the Zulus, killing them by scores.”
“Are your father and Pereira here now?” I asked.
“No, Allan. They learned of the massacre and that the Zulus were all
gone yesterday morning. Also they got the bad news that Retief and
everyone with him had been killed at Dingaan’s town, it is said through
the treachery of the English, who arranged with Dingaan that he should
kill them.”
“That is false,” I said; “but go on.”
“Then, Allan, they came and told me that I was a widow like many other
women—I who had never been a wife. Allan, Hernan said that I should not
grieve for you, as you deserved your fate, since you had been caught in
your own snare, being one of those who had betrayed the Boers. The
Vrouw Prinsloo answered to his face that he lied, and, Allan, I said
that I would never speak to him again until we met before the Judgment
Seat of God; nor will I do so.”
“But I will speak to him,” I muttered. “Well, where are they now?”
“They rode this morning back to the other Boers. I think they want to
bring a party of them here to settle, if they like this place, as it is
so easy to defend. They said they would return to-morrow, and that
meanwhile we were quite safe, as they had sure tidings that all the
Zulus were back over the Tugela, taking some of their wounded with
them, and also the Boer cattle as an offering to Dingaan. But come to
the house, Allan—our home that I had made ready for you as well as I
could. Oh! my God! our home on the threshold of which I believed you
would never set a foot. Yes, when the moon rose from that cloud I
believed it, and look, they are still quite close together. Hark, what
is that?”
I listened, and caught the sound of a horse’s hoofs stumbling among the
rocks.
“Don’t be frightened,” I answered; “it is only Hans with my horse. He
escaped also; I will tell you how afterwards.” And as I spoke he
appeared, a woebegone and exhausted object.
“Good day, missie,” he said with an attempt at cheerfulness. “Now you
should give me a fine dinner, for you see I have brought the baas back
safe to you. Did I not tell you, baas, that everything would come
right?”
Then he grew silent from exhaustion. Nor were we sorry, who at that
moment did not wish to listen to the poor fellow’s talk.
Something over two hours had gone by since the moon broke out from the
clouds. I had greeted the Vrouw Prinsloo and all my other friends, and
been received by them with rapture as one risen from the dead. If they
had loved me before, now a new gratitude was added to their love, since
had it not been for my warning they also must have made acquaintance
with the Zulu spears and perished. It was on their part of the camp
that the worst of the attack fell. Indeed, from those wagons hardly
anyone escaped.
I had told them all the story, to which they listened in dead silence.
Only when it was finished the Heer Meyer, whose natural gloom had been
deepened by all these events, said:
“Allemachte! but you have luck, Allan, to be left when everyone else is
taken. Now, did I not know you so well, like Hernan Pereira I should
think that you and that devil Dingaan had winked at each other.”
The Vrouw Prinsloo turned on him furiously.
“How dare you say such words, Carl Meyer?” she exclaimed. “Must Allan
always be insulted just because he is English, which he cannot help?
For my part, I think that if anyone winked at Dingaan it was the
stinkcat Pereira. Otherwise why did he come away before the killing and
bring that madman, Henri Marais, with him?”
“I don’t know, I am sure, aunt,” said Meyer humbly, for like everyone
else he was afraid of the Vrouw Prinsloo.
“Then why can’t you hold your tongue instead of saying silly things
which must give pain?” asked the vrouw. “No, don’t answer, for you will
only make matters worse; but take the rest of that meat to the poor
Hottentot, Hans”—I should explain that we had been supping—“who,
although he has eaten enough to burst any white stomach, I dare say can
manage another pound or two.”
Meyer obeyed meekly, and the others melted away also as they were wont
to do when the vrouw showed signs of war, so that she and we two were
left alone.
“Now,” said the vrouw, “everyone is tired, and I say that it is time to
go to rest. Good night, nephew Allan and niece Marie,” and she waddled
away leaving us together.
“Husband,” said Marie presently, “will you come and see the home that I
made ready for you before I thought that you were dead? It is a poor
place, but I pray God that we may be happy there,” and she took me by
the hand and kissed me once and twice and thrice.
About noon on the following day, when my wife and I were laughing and
arguing over some little domestic detail of our meagre establishment—so
soon are great griefs forgotten in an overwhelming joy, of a sudden I
saw her face change, and asked what was the matter.
“Hist!” she said, “I hear horses,” and she pointed in a certain
direction.
I looked, and there, round the corner of the hill, came a body of Boers
with their after-riders, thirty-two or three of them in all, of whom
twenty were white men.
“See,” said Marie, “my father is among them, and my cousin Hernan rides
at his side.”
It was true. There was Henri Marais, and just behind him, talking into
his ear, rode Hernan Pereira. I remember that the two of them reminded
me of a tale I had read about a man who was cursed with an evil genius
that drew him to some dreadful doom in spite of the promptings of his
better nature. The thin, worn, wild-eyed Marais, and the rich-faced,
carnal Pereira whispering slyly into his ear; they were exact types of
that man in the story and his evil genius who dragged him down to hell.
Prompted by some impulse, I threw my arms round Marie and embraced her,
saying:
“At least we have been very happy for a while.”
“What do you mean, Allan?” she asked doubtfully.
“Only that I think our good hours are done with for the present.”
“Perhaps,” she answered slowly; “but at least they have been very good
hours, and if I should die to-day I am glad to have lived to win them.”
Then the cavalcade of Boers came up.
Hernan Pereira, his senses sharpened perhaps by the instincts of hate
and jealousy, was the first to recognise me.
“Why, Mynheer Allan Quatermain,” he said, “how is it that you are here?
How is it that you still live? Commandant,” he added, turning to a
dark, sad-faced man of about sixty whom at that time I did not know,
“here is a strange thing. This Heer Quatermain, an Englishman, was with
the Governor Retief at the town of the Zulu king, as the Heer Henri
Marais can testify. Now, as we know for sure Pieter Retief and all his
people are dead, murdered by Dingaan, how then does it happen that this
man has escaped?”
“Why do you put riddles to me, Mynheer Pereira?” asked the dark Boer.
“Doubtless the Englishman will explain.”
“Certainly I will, mynheer,” I said. “Is it your pleasure that I should
speak now?”
The commandant hesitated. Then, having called Henri Marais apart and
talked to him for a little while, he replied:
“No, not now, I think; the matter is too serious. After we have eaten
we will listen to your story, Mynheer Quatermain, and meanwhile I
command you not to leave this place.”
“Do you mean that I am a prisoner, commandant?” I asked.
“If you put it so—yes, Mynheer Quatermain—a prisoner who has to explain
how some sixty of our brothers, who were your companions, came to be
butchered like beasts in Zululand, while you escaped. Now, no more
words; by and by doubtless there will be plenty of them. Here you,
Carolus and Johannes, keep watch upon this Englishman, of whom I hear
strange stories, with your guns loaded, please, and when we send to
you, lead him before us.”
“As usual, your cousin Hernan brings evil gifts,” I said to Marie
bitterly. “Well, let us also eat our dinner, which perhaps the Heeren
Carolus and Johannes will do us the honour to share—bringing their
loaded guns with them.”
Carolus and Johannes accepted the invitation, and from them we heard
much news, all of it terrible enough to learn, especially the details
of the massacre in that district, which, because of this fearful event
is now and always will be known as Weenen, or The Place of Weeping.
Suffice it to say that they were quite enough to take away all our
appetite, although Carolus and Johannes, who by this time had recovered
somewhat from the shock of that night of blood and terror, ate in a
fashion which might have filled Hans himself with envy.
Shortly after we had finished our meal, Hans, who, by the way, seemed
to have quite recovered from his fatigues, came to remove the dishes.
He informed us that all the Boers were having a great “talk,” and that
they were about to send for me. Sure enough, a few minutes later two
armed men arrived and ordered me to follow them. I turned to say some
words of farewell to Marie, but she said:
“I go where you do, husband,” and, as no objection was made by the
guard, she came.
About two hundred yards away, sitting under the shade of one of the
wagons, we found the Boers. Six of them were seated in a semicircle
upon stools or whatever they could find, the black-browed commandant
being in the centre and having in front of him a rough table on which
were writing materials.
To the left of these six were the Prinsloos and Meyers, being those
folk whom I had rescued from Delagoa, and to the right the other Boers
who had ridden into the camp that morning. I saw at a glance that a
court-martial had been arranged and that the six elders were the
judges, the commandant being the president of the court.
I do not give their names purposely, since I have no wish that the
actual perpetrators of the terrible blunder that I am about to describe
should be known to posterity. After all, they acted honestly according
to their lights, and were but tools in the hand of that villain Hernan
Pereira.
“Allan Quatermain,” said the commandant, “you are brought here to be
tried by a court-martial duly constituted according to the law
published in the camps of the emigrant Boers. Do you acknowledge that
law?”
“I know that there is such a law, commandant,” I answered, “but I do
not acknowledge the authority of your court-martial to try a man who is
no Boer, but a subject of the Queen of Great Britain.”
“We have considered that point, Allan Quatermain,” said the commandant,
“and we disallow it. You will remember that in the camp at Bushman’s
River, before you rode with the late Pieter Retief to the chief
Sikonyela, when you were given command of the Zulus who went with him,
you took an oath to interpret truly and to be faithful in all things to
the General Retief, to his companions and to his cause. That oath we
hold gives this court jurisdiction over you.”
“I deny your jurisdiction,” I answered, “although it is true that I
took an oath to interpret faithfully, and I request that a note of my
denial may be made in writing.”
“It shall be done,” said the commandant, and laboriously he made the
note on the paper before him.
When he had finished he looked up and said: “The charge against you,
Allan Quatermain, is that, being one of the commission who recently
visited the Zulu king Dingaan, under command of the late Governor and
General Pieter Retief, you did falsely and wickedly urge the said
Dingaan to murder the said Pieter Retief and his companions, and
especially Henri Marais, your father-in-law, and Hernando Pereira, his
nephew, with both of whom you had a quarrel. Further, that afterwards
you brought about the said murder, having first arranged with the king
of the Zulus that you should be removed to a place of safety while it
was done. Do you plead Guilty or Not guilty?”
Now when I heard this false and abominable charge my rage and
indignation caused me to laugh aloud.
“Are you mad, commandant,” I exclaimed, “that you should say such
things? On what evidence is this wicked lie advanced against me?”
“No, Allan Quatermain, I am not mad,” he replied, “although it is true
that through your evil doings I, who have lost my wife and three
children by the Zulu spears, have suffered enough to make me mad. As
for the evidence against you, you shall hear it. But first I will write
down that you plead Not guilty.”
He did so, then said:
“If you will acknowledge certain things it will save us all much time,
of which at present we have little to spare. Those things are that
knowing what was going to happen to the commission, you tried to avoid
accompanying it. Is that true?”
“No,” I answered. “I knew nothing of what was going to happen to the
commission, though I feared something, having but just saved my friends
there”—and I pointed to the Prinsloos—“from death at the hands of
Dingaan. I did not wish to accompany it for another reason: that I had
been married on the day of its starting to Marie Marais. Still, I went
after all because the General Retief, who was my friend, asked me to
come, to interpret for him.”
Now some of the Boers present said:
“That is true. We remember.”
But the commandant continued, taking no heed of my answer or these
interruptions.
“Do you acknowledge that you were on bad terms with Henri Marais and
with Hernan Pereira?”
“Yes,” I answered; “because Henri Marais did all in his power to
prevent my marriage with his daughter Marie, behaving very ill to me
who had saved his life and that of his people who remained to him up by
Delagoa, and afterwards at Umgungundhlovu. Because, too, Hernan Pereira
strove to rob me of Marie, who loved me. Moreover, although I had saved
him when he lay sick to death, he afterwards tried to murder me by
shooting me down in a lonely place. Here is the mark of it,” and I
touched the little scar upon the side of my forehead.
“That is true; he did so, the stinkcat,” shouted the Vrouw Prinsloo,
and was ordered to be silent.
“Do you acknowledge,” went on the commandant, “that you sent to warn
your wife and those with her to depart from the camp on the Bushman’s
River, because it was going to be attacked, charging them to keep the
matter secret, and that afterwards both you and your Hottentot servant
alone returned safely from Zululand, where all those who went with you
lie dead?”
“I acknowledge,” I answered, “that I wrote to tell my wife to come to
this place where I had been building houses, as you see, and to bring
with her any of our companions who cared to trek here, or, failing
that, to go alone. This I did because Dingaan had told me, whether in
jest or in earnest I did not know, that he had given orders that my
said wife should be kidnapped, as he desired to make her one of his
women, having thought her beautiful when he saw her. Also what I did
was done with the knowledge and by the wish of the late Governor
Retief, as can be shown by his writing on my letter. I acknowledge also
that I escaped when all my brothers were killed, as did the Hottentot
Hans, and if you wish to know I will tell you how we escaped and why.”
The commandant made a further note, then he said:
“Let the witness Hernan Pereira be called and sworn.”
This was done and he was ordered to tell his tale.
As may be imagined, it was a long tale, and one that had evidently been
prepared with great care. I will only set down its blackest falsehoods.
He assured the court that he had no enmity against me and had never
attempted to kill me or do me any harm, although it was true that his
heart felt sore because, against her father’s will, I had stolen away
the affection of his betrothed, who was now my wife. He said that he
had stopped in Zululand because he knew that I should marry her as soon
as she came of age, and it was too great pain for him to see this done.
He said that while he was there, before the arrival of the commission,
Dingaan and some of his captains had told him that I had again and
again urged him, Dingaan, to kill the Boers because they were traitors
to the sovereign of England, but that he, Dingaan, had refused to do
so. He said that when Retief came up with the commission he tried to
warn him against me, but that Retief would not listen, being infatuated
with me as many others were, and he looked towards the Prinsloos.
Then came the worst of all. He said that while he was engaged in
mending some guns for Dingaan in one of his private huts, he overheard
a conversation between myself and Dingaan which took place outside the
hut, I, of course, not knowing that he was within. The substance of
this conversation was that I again urged Dingaan to kill the Boers and
afterwards to send an impi to massacre their wives and families. Only I
asked him to give me time to get away a girl whom I had married from
among them, and with her a few of my own friends whom I wished should
be spared, as I intended to become a kind of chief over them, and if he
would grant it me, to hold all the land of Natal under his rule and the
protection of the English. To these proposals Dingaan answered that
“they seemed wise and good, and that he would think them over very
carefully.”
Pereira said further that coming out of the hut after Dingaan had gone
away he reproached me bitterly for my wickedness, and announced that he
would warn the Boers, which he did subsequently by word of mouth and in
writing. That thereon I caused him to be detained by the Zulus while I
went to Retief and told him some false story about him, Pereira, which
caused Retief to drive him out of his camp and give orders that none of
the Boers should so much as speak to him. That then he did the only
thing he could. Going to his uncle, Henri Marais, he told him, not all
the truth, but that he had learnt for certain that his daughter Marie
was in dreadful danger of her life because of some intended attack of
the Zulus, and that all the Boers among whom she dwelt were also in
danger of their lives.
Therefore he suggested to Henri Marais that as the General Retief was
besotted and would not listen to his story, the best thing they could
do was to ride away and warn the Boers. This then they did secretly,
without the knowledge of Retief, but being delayed upon their journey
by one accident and another, which he set out in detail, they only
reached the Bushman’s River too late, after the massacre had taken
place. Subsequently, as the commandant knew, hearing a rumour that
Marie Marais and other Boers had trekked to this place before the
slaughter, they came here and learned that they had done so upon a
warning sent to them by Allan Quatermain, whereon they returned and
communicated the news to the surviving Boers at Bushman’s River.
That was all he had to say.
Then, as I reserved my cross-examination until I heard all the evidence
against me, Henri Marais was sworn and corroborated his nephew’s
testimony on many points as to my relations to his daughter, his
objection to my marriage to her because I was an Englishman whom he
disliked and mistrusted, and so forth. He added further that it was
true Pereira had told him he had sure information that Marie and the
Boers were in danger from an attack upon them which had been arranged
between Allan Quatermain and Dingaan; that he also had written to
Retief and tried to speak to him but was refused a hearing. Thereon he
had ridden away from Umgungundhlovu to try to save his daughter and
warn the Boers. That was all he had to say.
As there were no further witnesses for the prosecution I cross-examined
these two at full length, but absolutely without results, since every
vital question that I asked was met with a direct negative.
Then I called my witnesses, Marie, whose evidence they refused to hear
on the ground that she was my wife and prejudiced, the Vrouw Prinsloo
and her family, and the Meyers. One and all told a true story of my
relations with Hernan Pereira, Henri Marais, and Dingaan, so far as
they knew them.
After this, as the commandant declined to take the evidence of Hans
because he was a Hottentot and my servant, I addressed the court,
relating exactly what had taken place between me and Dingaan, and how I
and Hans came to escape on our second visit to his kraal. I pointed out
also that unhappily for myself I could not prove my words, since
Dingaan was not available as a witness, and all the others were dead.
Further, I produced my letter to Marie, which was endorsed by Retief,
and the letter to Retief signed by Marais and Pereira which remained in
my possession.
By the time that I had finished my speech the sun was setting and
everyone was tired out. I was ordered to withdraw under guard, while
the court consulted, which it did for a long while. Then I was called
forward again and the commandant said:
“Allan Quatermain, after prayer to God we have considered this case to
the best of our judgment and ability. On the one hand we note that you
are an Englishman, a member of a race which hates and has always
oppressed our people, and that it was to your interest to get rid of
two of them with whom you had quarrelled. The evidence of Henri Marais
and Hernan Pereira, which we cannot disbelieve, shows that you were
wicked enough, either in order to do this, or because of your malice
against the Boer people, to plot their destruction with a savage. The
result is that some seven hundred men, women, and children have lost
their lives in a very cruel manner, whereas you, your servant, your
wife and your friends have alone escaped unharmed. For such a crime as
this a hundred deaths could not pay; indeed, God alone can give to it
its just punishment, and to Him it is our duty to send you to be
judged. We condemn you to be shot as a traitor and a murderer, and may
He have mercy on your soul.”
At these dreadful words Marie fell to the ground fainting and a pause
ensued while she was carried off to the Prinsloos’ house, whither the
vrouw followed to attend her. Then the commandant went on:
“Still, although we have thus passed judgment on you; because you are
an Englishman against whom it might be said that we had prejudices, and
because you have had no opportunity of preparing a defence, and no
witnesses to the facts, since all those whom you say you could have
called are dead, we think it right that this unanimous sentence of ours
should be confirmed by a general court of the emigrant Boers. Therefore
to-morrow morning you will be taken with us to the Bushman’s River
camp, where the case will be settled, and, if necessary, execution done
in accordance with the verdict of the generals and veld-cornets of that
camp. Meanwhile you will be kept in custody in your own house. Now have
you anything to say against this sentence?”
“Yes, this,” I answered, “that although you do not know it, it is an
unjust sentence, built up on the lies of one who has always been my
enemy, and of a man whose brain is rotten. I never betrayed the Boers.
If anyone betrayed them it was Hernan Pereira himself, who, as I proved
to the General Retief, had been praying Dingaan to kill me, and whom
Retief threatened to put upon his trial for this very crime, for which
reason and no other Pereira fled from the kraal, taking his tool Henri
Marais with him. You have asked God to judge me. Well, I ask God to
judge him and Henri Marais also, and I know He will in one way or
another. As for me, I am ready to die, as I have been for months while
serving the cause of you Boers. Shoot me now if you will, and make an
end. But I tell you that if I escape your hands I will not suffer this
treatment to go unpunished. I will lay my case before the rulers of my
people, and if necessary before my Queen, yes, if I have to travel to
London to do it, and you Boers shall learn that you cannot condemn an
innocent Englishman upon false testimony and not pay the price. I tell
you that price shall be great if I live, and if I die it shall be
greater still.”
Now these words, very foolish words, I admit, which being young and
inexperienced I spoke in my British pride, I could see made a great
impression upon my judges. They believed, to be fair to them, that they
had passed a just sentence. Blinded by prejudice and falsehood, and
maddened by the dreadful losses their people had suffered during the
past few days at the hands of a devilish savage, they believed that I
was the instigator of those losses, one who ought to die. Indeed, all,
or nearly all the Boers were persuaded that Dingaan was urged to this
massacre by the counsels of Englishmen. The mere fact of my own and my
servant’s miraculous escape, when all my companions had perished,
proved my guilt to them without the evidence of Pereira, which, being
no lawyers, they thought sufficient to justify their verdict.
Still, they had an uneasy suspicion that this evidence was not
conclusive, and might indeed be rejected _in toto_ by a more competent
court upon various grounds. Also they knew themselves to be rebels who
had no legal right to form a court, and feared the power of the long
arm of England, from which for a little while they had escaped. If I
were allowed to tell my tale to the Parliament in London, what might
not happen to them, they wondered—to them who had ventured to pass
sentence of death upon a subject of the Queen of Great Britain? Might
not this turn the scale against them? Might not Britain arise in wrath
and crush them, these men who dared to invoke her forms of law in order
to kill her citizen? Those, as I learned afterwards, were the thoughts
that passed through their minds.
Also another thought passed through their minds—that if the sentence
were executed at once, a dead man cannot appeal, and that here I had no
friends to take up my cause and avenge me. But of all this they said
nothing. Only at a sign I was marched away to my little house and
imprisoned under guard.
Now I propose to tell the rest of the history of these tragic events as
they happened, although some of them did not come to my knowledge till
the morrow or afterwards, for I think this will be the more simple and
the easier plan.
CHAPTER XXI.
THE INNOCENT BLOOD
After I had been taken away it seems that the court summoned Hernan
Pereira and Henri Marais to accompany them to a lonely spot at a
distance, where they thought that their deliberations would not be
overheard. In this, however, they were mistaken, having forgotten the
fox-like cunning of the Hottentot, Hans. Hans had heard me sentenced,
and probably enough feared that he who also had committed the crime of
escaping from Dingaan, might be called on to share that sentence. Also
he wished to know the secret counsel of these Boers, whose language, of
course, he understood as well as he did his own.
So making a circuit up the hillside, he crept towards them on his belly
as a snake creeps, wriggling in and out between the tufts of last
year’s dead grass, which grew here in plenty, without so much as moving
their tops. At length he lay still in the centre of a bush that grew
behind a stone not five paces from where they were talking, whence he
listened intently to every word that passed their lips.
This was the substance of their talk; that for the reasons I have
already mentioned it would be best that I should die at once. Sentence,
said the commandant, had been passed, and could not be rescinded, since
even if it were, their offence would remain as heavy in the eyes of the
English authorities. But if they took me to their main camp to be
re-tried by their great council, possibly that sentence might be
rescinded and they be left individually and collectively to atone for
what they had done. Also they knew that I was very clever and might
escape in some other way to bring the English, or possibly the Zulus,
upon them, since they felt convinced that Dingaan and I were working
together for their destruction, and that while I had breath in my body
I should never cease my efforts to be avenged.
When it was found that they were all of one mind in this matter, the
question arose: What should be done? Somebody suggested that I should
be shot at once, but the commandant pointed out that such a deed,
worked at night, would look like murder, especially as it violated the
terms of their verdict.
Then another suggestion was made: that I should be brought out of my
house just before the dawn on pretence that it was time to ride; that
then I should be given the opportunity of escape and instantly shot
down. Or it might be pretended that I had tried to escape, with a like
result. Who, they urged, was to know in that half-light whether I had
or had not actually attempted to run for my life, or to threaten their
lives, circumstances under which the law said it was justifiable to
shoot a prisoner already formally condemned to death?
To this black counsel they all agreed, being so terribly afraid of a
poor English lad whose existence, although most of them did not know
this, was to be taken from him upon false evidence. But then arose
another question: By whose hand should the thing be done? Not one of
them, it would seem, was anxious to fulfil this bloody office; indeed,
they one and all refused to do so. A proposal was put forward that some
of their native servants should be forced to serve as executioners; but
when this had been vetoed by the general sense of the court, their
counsels came to a deadlock.
Then, after a whispered conference, the commandant spoke some dreadful
words.
“Hernando Pereira and Henri Marais,” he said, “it is on your evidence
that this young man has been condemned. We believe that evidence, but
if by one jot or one tittle it is false, then not justice, but a foul
murder will have been committed and his innocent blood will be upon
your heads for ever. Hernando Pereira and Henri Marais, the court
appoints you to be the guards who will bring the prisoner out of his
house to-morrow morning just when the sky begins to lighten. It is from
_you_ that he will try to escape, and _you_ will prevent his escape by
his death. Then you must join us where we shall be waiting for you and
report the execution.”
When Henri Marais heard this he exclaimed:
“I swear by God that I cannot do it. Is it right or natural that a man
should be forced to kill his own son-in-law?”
“You could bear evidence against your own son-in-law, Henri Marais,”
answered the stern-faced commandant. “Why then cannot you kill with
your rifle one whom you have already helped to kill with your tongue?”
“I will not, I cannot!” said Marais, tearing at his beard. But the
commandant only answered coldly:
“You have the orders of the court, and if you choose to disobey them we
shall begin to believe that you have sworn falsely. Then you and your
nephew will also appear before the great council when the Englishman is
tried again. Still, it matters nothing to us whether you or Hernando
Pereira shall fire the shot. See you to it, as the Jews said to Judas
who had betrayed the innocent Lord.”
Then he paused and went on, addressing Pereira:
“Do you also refuse, Hernando Pereira? Remember before you answer that
if you do refuse we shall draw our own conclusions. Remember, too, that
the evidence which you have given, showing that this wicked Englishman
plotted and caused the deaths of our brothers and of our wives and
children, which we believe to be true evidence, shall be weighed and
investigated word by word before the great council.”
“To give evidence is one thing, and to shoot the traitor and murderer
another,” said Pereira. Then he added with an oath, or so vowed Hans:
“Yet why should I, who know all this villain’s guilt, refuse to carry
out the sentence of the law on him? Have no fear, commandant, the
accursed Allan Quatermain shall not succeed in his attempt to escape
to-morrow before the dawn.”
“So be it,” said the commandant. “Now, do all you who have heard those
words take note of them.”
Then Hans, seeing that the council was about to break up, and fearing
lest he should be caught and killed, slipped away by the same road that
he had come. His thought was to warn me, but this he could not do
because of the guards. So he went to the Prinsloos, and finding the
vrouw alone with Marie, who had recovered her mind, told them
everything that he had heard.
As he said, Marie knelt down and prayed, or thought for a long while,
then rose and spoke.
“Tante,” she said to the vrouw, “one thing is clear, that Allan will be
murdered at the dawn; now if he is hidden away he may escape.”
“But where and how can we hide him,” asked the vrouw, “seeing that the
place is guarded?”
“Tante,” said Marie again, “at the back of your house is an old cattle
kraal made by Kaffirs, and in that cattle kraal, as I have seen, there
are mealie-pits where those Kaffirs stored their grain. Now I suggest
that we should put my husband into one of those mealie-pits and cover
it over. There the Boers might not find him, however close they
searched.”
“That is a good idea,” said the vrouw; “but how in the name of God are
we to get Allan out of a guarded house into a mealie-pit?”
“Tante, I have a right to go to my husband’s house, and there I will
go. Afterwards, too, I shall have the right to leave his house before
he is taken away. Well, he might leave it in my place, _as me_, and you
and Hans might help him. Then in the morning the Boers would come to
search the house and find no one except me.”
“That is all very pretty,” answered the vrouw; “but do you think, my
niece, that those accursed vultures will go away until they have picked
Allan’s bones? Not they, for too much hangs on it. They will know that
he cannot be far off, and slink about the place until they have found
him in his mealie-hole or until he comes out. It is blood they are
after, thanks to your cousin Hernan, the liar, and blood they will have
for their own safety’s sake. Never will they go away from here until
they see Allan lying dead upon the ground.”
Now, according to Hans, Marie thought again very deeply. Then she
answered:
“There is a great risk, tante; but we must take it. Send your husband
to chat with those guards, and give him a bottle of spirits. I will
talk with Hans here and see what can be arranged.”
So Marie went aside with Hans, as he told me afterwards, and asked him
if he knew of any medicine that made people sleep for a long while
without waking. He answered, Yes; all the coloured people had plenty of
such medicine. Without doubt he could get some from the Kaffirs who
dwelt upon the place, or if not he could dig the roots of a plant that
he had seen growing near by which would serve the purpose. So she sent
him to procure this stuff. Afterwards she spoke to the Vrouw Prinsloo,
saying:
“My plan is that Allan should escape from our house disguised as
myself. But as I know well that he will not run away while he has his
senses, seeing that to do so in his mind would be to confess his guilt,
I propose to take his senses from him by means of a drugged drink. Then
I propose that you and Hans should carry him into the shadow of this
house, and when no one is looking, to the old grain-pit that lies but a
few yards away, covering the mouth of it with dead grass. There he will
remain till the Boers grow tired of searching for him and ride away. Or
if it should chance that they find him, he will be no worse off than he
was before.”
“A good plan enough, Marie, though not one that Allan would have
anything to do with if he kept his wits,” answered the vrouw, “seeing
that he was always a man for facing things out, although so young in
years. Still, we will try to save him in spite of himself from the
claws of that stinkcat Pereira, whom may God curse, and his tool, your
father. As you say, at the worst no harm will be done even if they find
him, as probably they will, seeing that they will not leave this place
without blood.”
Such then was the trick which Marie arranged with the Vrouw Prinsloo.
Or rather, I should say, seemed to arrange, since she told her nothing
of her real mind, she who knew that the vrouw was right and that for
their own sakes, as well as because they believed it to be justice, the
Boers would never leave that place until they saw blood running on the
grass.
This, oh! this was Marie’s true and dreadful plan—_to give her life for
mine!_ She was sure that once he had slain his victim, Hernan Pereira
would not stop to make examination of the corpse. He would ride away,
hounded by his guilty conscience, and meanwhile I could escape.
She never thought the thing out in all its details, she who was
maddened with terror and had no time. She only felt her way from step
to step, dimly seeing my deliverance at the end of the journey. Marie
told the Vrouw Prinsloo nothing, except that she proposed to drug me if
I would not go undrugged. Then the vrouw must hide me as best she
could, in the grain-pit or elsewhere, or, if I had my senses about me,
let me hide myself. Afterwards she, Marie, would face the Boers and
tell them to find me if they wanted me.
The vrouw answered that she had now thought of a better plan. It was
that she should arrange with her husband and son and the Meyers, all of
whom loved me, that they should rescue me, or if need be, kill or
disable Pereira before he could shoot me.
Marie replied that this was good if it could be done, and the vrouw
went out to find her husband and the other men. Presently, however, she
returned with a long face, saying that the commandant had them all
under guard. It seemed that it had occurred to him, or more probably to
Pereira, that the Prinsloos and the Meyers, who looked on me as a
brother, might attempt some rescue, or make themselves formidable in
other ways. Therefore, as a matter of precaution, they had been put
under arrest and their arms taken from them as mine had been. What the
commandant said, however, was that he took these somewhat high-handed
measures in order to be sure that they, the Prinsloos and the Meyers,
should be ready on the following morning to ride with him and the
prisoner to the main camp, where the great council might wish to
interrogate them.
One concession, however, the vrouw had won from the commandant, who,
knowing what was about to happen to me, had not, I suppose, the heart
to refuse. It was that my wife and she might visit me and give me food
on the stipulation that they both left the house where I was confined
by ten o’clock that night.
So it came to this, that if anything was to be done, these two women
and a Hottentot must do it, since they could hope for no help in their
plans. Here I should add that the vrouw told Marie in Hans’s presence
that she had thought of attacking the commandant as to this matter of
my proposed shooting by Pereira. On reflection, however, she refrained
for two reasons, first because she feared lest she might only make
matters worse and rob me of my sole helpers, and secondly for fear lest
she should bring about the death of Hans, to whom the story would
certainly be traced.
As he was the solitary witness to the plot, it seemed to her that he
would scarcely be allowed to escape to repeat it far and wide.
Especially was this so, as the unexplained death of a Hottentot,
suspected of treachery like his master, was not a matter that would
have been thought worth notice in those rough and bloody times. She may
have been right, or she may have been wrong, but in weighing her
decision it must always be borne in mind that she was, and until the
end remained, in utter ignorance of Marie’s heroic design to go to her
death in place of me.
So the two women and the Hottentot proceeded to mature the plans which
I have outlined. One other alternative, however, Hans did suggest. It
was that they should try to drug the guards with some of the medicated
drink that was meant for me, and that then Marie, I and he should slip
away and get down to the river, there to hide in the weeds. Thence,
perhaps, we might escape to Port Natal where lived Englishmen who would
protect us.
Of course this idea was hopeless from the first. The moonlight was
almost as bright as day, and the veld quite open for a long way round,
so that we should certainly have been seen and re-captured, which of
course would have meant instant death. Further, as it happened, the
guards had been warned against touching liquor of any sort since it was
thought probable that an attempt would be made to intoxicate them.
Still the women determined to try this scheme if they could find a
chance. At least it was a second string to their bow.
Meanwhile they made their preparations. Hans went away for a little and
returned with a supply of his sleep-producing drug, though whether he
got this from the Kaffirs or gathered it himself, I do not remember, if
I ever heard. At any rate it was boiled up in the water with which they
made the coffee that I was to drink, though not in that which Marie
proposed to drink with me, the strong taste and black hue of the coffee
effectually hiding any flavour or colour that there might be in the
herb. Also the vrouw cooked some food which she gave to Hans to carry.
First, however, he went to investigate the old mealie-pit which was
within a few paces of the back door of the Prinsloos’ house. He
reported that it would do well to hide a man in, especially as tall
grass and bushes grew about its mouth.
Then the three of them started, and arriving at the door of my house,
which was about a hundred yards away, were of course challenged by the
sentries.
“Heeren,” said Marie, “the commandant has given us leave to bring food
to my husband, whom you guard within. Pray do not prevent us from
entering.”
“No,” answered one of them gently enough, for he was touched with pity
at her plight. “We have our orders to admit you, the Vrouw Prinsloo and
the native servant, though why three of you should be needed to carry
food to one man, I don’t know. I should have thought that at such a
time he would have preferred to be alone with his wife.”
“The Vrouw Prinsloo wishes to ask my husband certain questions about
his property here and what is to be done while he and her men are away
at the main camp for the second trial, as I, whose heart is full of
sorrow, have no head for such things. Also the Hottentot must have
orders as to where he is to get a horse to ride with him, so pray let
us pass, mynheer.”
“Very good; it is no affair of ours, Vrouw Quatermain— Stay, I suppose
that you have no arms under that long cloak of yours.”
“Search me, if you will, mynheer,” she answered, opening the cloak,
whereon, after a quick glance, he nodded and bade them enter, saying:
“Mind, you are to come out by ten o’clock. You must not pass the night
in that house, or we shall have the little Englishman oversleeping
himself in the morning.”
Then they entered and found me seated at a table preparing notes for my
defence and setting down the heads of the facts of my relations with
Pereira, Dingaan, and the late Commandant Retief.
Here I may state that my condition at the time was not one of fear, but
rather of burning indignation. Indeed, I had not the slightest doubt
but that when my case was re-tried before the great council, I should
be able to establish my complete innocence of the abominable charges
that had been brought against me. Therefore it came about that when
Marie suggested that I should try to escape, I begged her almost
roughly not to mention such a thing again.
“Run away!” I said. “Why, that would be to confess myself guilty, for
only the guilty run away. What I want is to have all this business
thrashed out and that devil Pereira exposed.”
“But, Allan,” said Marie, “how if you should never live to have it
thrashed out? How if you should be shot first?” Then she rose, and
having looked to see that the shutter-board was fast in the little
window-place and the curtain that she had made of sacking drawn over
it, returned and whispered: “Hans here has heard a horrible tale,
Allan. Tell it to the baas, Hans.”
So while Vrouw Prinsloo, in order to deceive any prying eyes if such by
chance could see us, busied herself with lighting a fire on the hearth
in the second room on which to warm the food, Hans told his story much
as it has already been set out.
I listened to it with growing incredulity. The thing seemed to me
impossible. Either Hans was deceived or lying, the latter probably, for
well I knew the Hottentot powers of imagination. Or perhaps he was
drunk; indeed, he smelt of liquor, of which I was aware he could carry
a great quantity without outward signs of intoxication.
“I cannot believe it,” I said when he had finished. “Even if Pereira is
such a fiend, as is possible, would Henri Marais, your father—who, at
any rate, has always been a good and God-fearing man—consent to work
such a crime upon his daughter’s husband, though he does dislike him?”
“My father is not what he was, Allan,” said Marie. “Sometimes I think
that his brain has gone.”
“He did not speak like a man whose brain has gone this afternoon,” I
replied. “But let us suppose that this tale is true, what is it that
you wish me to do?”
“Allan, I wish you to dress up in my clothes and get away to a
hiding-place which Hans and the vrouw know, leaving me here instead of
you.”
“Why, Marie?” I said. “Then you might get yourself shot in my place,
always supposing that they mean to shoot me. Also I should certainly be
caught and killed, as they would have a right to kill me for trying to
escape in disguise. That is a mad plan, and I have a better. Vrouw
Prinsloo, go straight to the commandant and tell him all this story.
Or, if he will not listen to you, scream it out at the top of your
voice so that everyone may hear, and then come back and tell us the
result. Of one thing I am sure, that if you do this, even if there was
any thought of my being shot tomorrow morning, it will be abandoned.
You can refuse to say who told you the tale.”
“Yes, please do that,” muttered Hans, “else I know one who will be
shot.”
“Good, I will go,” said the vrouw, and she went, the guards letting her
pass after a few words which we could not hear.
Half an hour later she returned and called to us to open the door.
“Well?” I asked.
“Well,” she said, “I have failed, nephew. Except those sentries outside
the door, the commandant and all the Boers have ridden off, I know not
where, taking our people with them.”
“That’s odd,” I answered, “but I suppose they thought they had not
enough grass for their horses, or Heaven knows what they thought. Stay
now, I will do something,” and, opening the door, I called to the
guards, honest fellows in their way, whom I had known in past times.
“Listen, friends,” I said. “A tale has been brought to me that I am not
to be taken to the big camp to have my case inquired of by the council,
but am to be shot down in cold blood when I come out of this house
to-morrow morning. Is that true?”
“Allemachte, Englishman!” answered one of them. “Do you take us for
murderers? Our orders are to lead you to the commandant wherever he may
appoint, so have no fear that we shall shoot you like a Kaffir. Either
you or they who told you such a story are mad.”
“So I thought, friends,” I answered. “But where is the commandant and
where are the others? The Vrouw Prinsloo here has been to see them, and
reports that they are all gone.”
“That is very likely,” said the Boer. “There is a rumour that some of
your Zulu brothers have come across the Tugela again to hunt us, which,
if you want to know the truth, is why we visited this place. Well, the
commandant has taken his men for a ride to see if he can meet them by
this bright moonlight. Pity he could not take you, too, since you would
have known so well where to find them, if they are there at all. Now
please talk no more nonsense to us, which it makes us sick to hear, and
don’t think that you can slip away because we are only two, for you
know our _roers_ are loaded with slugs, and we have orders to use
them.”
“There,” I said when I had shut the door, “now you have heard for
yourselves. As I thought, there is nothing in this fine story, so I
hope you are convinced.”
Neither the vrouw nor Marie made any answer, and Hans also held his
tongue. Yet, as I remembered afterwards, I saw a strange glance pass
between the two women, who were not at all convinced, and, although I
never dreamed of such a thing, had now determined to carry out their
own desperate plan. But of this I repeat the vrouw and Hans only knew
one half; the rest was locked in Marie’s loving heart.
“Perhaps you are right, Allan,” said the vrouw in the tone of one who
gives way to an unreasonable child. “I hope so, and, at any rate, you
can refuse to come out of the house to-morrow morning until you are
quite sure. And now let us eat some supper, for we shall not make
matters better by going hungry. Hans, bring the food.”
So we ate, or made pretence to eat, and I, being thirsty, drank two
cups of the black coffee dashed with spirit to serve as milk. After
this I grew strangely sleepy. The last thing I remember was Marie
looking at me with her beautiful eyes, that were full—ah! so full of
tender love, and kissing me again and again upon the lips.
I dreamed all sorts of dreams, rather pleasant dreams on the whole.
Then I woke up by degrees to find myself in an earthen pit shaped like
a bottle and having the remains of polished sides to it. It made me
think of Joseph who was let down by his brethren into a well in the
desert. Now, who on earth could have let me down into a well,
especially as I had no brethren? Perhaps I was not really in a well.
Perhaps this was a nightmare. Or I might be dead. I began to remember
that there were certain good reasons why I should be dead. Only,
only—why should they have buried me in woman’s clothes as I seemed to
wear?
And what was that noise that had wakened me?
It could not be the trump of doom, unless the trumping of doom went off
like a double-barrelled gun.
I began to try to climb out of my hole, but as it was nine feet deep
and bottle-shaped, which the light flowing in from the neck showed, I
found this impossible. Just as I was giving up the attempt, a yellow
face appeared in that neck, which looked to me like the face of Hans,
and an arm was projected downwards.
“Jump, if you are awake, baas,” said a voice—surely it was the voice of
Hans—“and I will pull you out.”
So I jumped, and caught the arm above the wrist. Then the owner of the
arm pulled desperately, and the end of it was that I succeeded in
gripping the edge of the bottle-like hole, and, with the help of the
arm, in dragging myself out.
“Now, baas,” said Hans, for it _was_ Hans, “run, run before the Boers
catch you.”
“What Boers?” I asked, sleepily; “and how can I run with these things
flapping about my legs?”
Then I looked about me, and, although the dawn was only just breaking,
began to recognise my surroundings. Surely this was the Prinsloos’
house to my right, and that, faintly seen through the mist about a
hundred paces away, was Marie’s and my own. There seemed to be
something going on yonder which excited my awakening curiosity. I could
see figures moving in an unusual manner, and desired to know what they
were doing. I began to walk towards them, and Hans, for his part, began
to try to drag me in an opposite direction, uttering all sorts of
gibberish as to the necessity of my running away. But I would not be
dragged; indeed, I struck at him, until at last, with an exclamation of
despair, he let go of me and vanished.
So I went on alone. I came to my house, or what I thought resembled it,
and there saw a figure lying on its face on the ground some ten or
fifteen yards to the right of the doorway, and noted abstractedly that
it was dressed in my clothes. The Vrouw Prinsloo, in her absurd night
garments, was waddling towards the figure, and a little way off stood
Hernan Pereira, apparently in the act of reloading a double-barrelled
gun. Beyond, staring at him, stood the lantern-faced Henri Marais,
pulling at his long beard with one hand and holding a rifle in the
other. Behind were two saddled horses in the charge of a raw Kaffir,
who looked on stupidly.
The Vrouw Prinsloo reached the body that lay upon the ground dressed in
what resembled my clothes, and bending down her stout shape with an
effort, turned it over. She glared into its face and then began to
shriek.
“Come here, Henri Marais,” she shrieked, “come, see what your beloved
nephew has done! You had a daughter who was all your life to you, Henri
Marais. Well, come, look at her after your beloved nephew has finished
his work with her!”
Henri Marais advanced slowly like one who does not understand. He stood
over the body on the ground, and looked down upon it through the
morning mists.
Then suddenly he went mad. His broad hat fell from his head, and his
long hair seemed to stand up. Also his beard grew big and bristled like
the feathers of a bird in frosty weather. He turned on Hernan Pereira.
“You devil!” he shouted, and his voice sounded like the roar of a wild
beast; “you devil, you have murdered my daughter! Because you could not
get Marie for yourself, you have murdered her. Well, I will pay you
back!”
Without more ado he lifted his gun and fired straight at Hernan
Pereira, who sank slowly to the ground and lay there groaning.
Just then I grew aware that horsemen were advancing upon us, a great
number of horsemen, though whence they came at that time I did not
know. One of these I recognised even in my half-drunken state, for he
had impressed himself very vividly upon my mind. He was the dark-browed
commandant who had tried and condemned me to death. He dismounted, and,
staring at the two figures that lay upon the ground, said in a loud and
terrible voice:
“What is this? Who are these men, and why are they shot? Explain, Henri
Marais.”
“Men!” wailed Henri Marais, “they are not men. One is a woman—my only
child; and the other is a devil, who, being a devil, will not die. See!
he will not die. Give me another gun that I may make him die.”
The commandant looked about him wildly, and his eye fell upon the Vrouw
Prinsloo.
“What has chanced, vrouw?” he asked.
“Only this,” she replied in a voice of unnatural calm. “Your murderers
whom you set on in the name of law and justice have made a mistake. You
told them to murder Allan Quatermain for reasons of your own. Well,
they have murdered his wife instead.”
Now the commandant struck his hand upon his forehead and groaned, and
I, half awakened at last, ran forward, shaking my fists and gibbering.
“Who is that?” asked the commandant. “Is it a man or a woman?”
“It is a man in woman’s clothing; it is Allan Quatermain,” answered the
vrouw, “whom we drugged and tried to hide from your butchers.”
“God above us!” exclaimed the commandant, “is this earth or hell?”
Then the wounded Pereira raised himself upon one hand.
“I am dying,” he cried; “my life is bleeding away, but before I die I
must speak. All that story I told against the Englishman is false. He
never plotted with Dingaan against the Boers. It was I who plotted with
Dingaan. Although I hated him because he found me out, I did not wish
Retief and our people to be killed. But I did wish Allan Quatermain to
be killed, because he had won her whom I loved, though, as it happened,
all the others were slain, and he alone escaped. Then I came here and
learned that Marie was his wife—yes, his wife indeed—and grew mad with
hate and jealousy. So I bore false witness against him, and, you fools,
you believed me and ordered me to shoot him who is innocent before God
and man. Then things went wrong. The woman tricked me again—for the
last time. She dressed herself as the man, and in the dawnlight I was
deceived. I killed her, her whom I love alone, and now her father, who
loved her also, has killed me.”
By this time I understood all, for my drugged brain had awakened at
last. I ran to the brute upon the ground; grotesque in my woman’s
garments all awry, I leaped on him and stamped out the last of his
life. Then, standing over his dead body, I shook my fists and cried:
“Men, see what you have done. May God pay you back all you owe her and
me!”
They dismounted, they came round me, they protested, they even wept.
And I, I raved at them upon the one side, while the mad Henri Marais
raved upon the other; and the Vrouw Prinsloo, waving her big arms,
called down the curse of God and the blood of the innocent upon their
heads and those of their children for ever.
Then I remember no more.
When I came to myself two weeks afterwards, for I had been very ill and
in delirium, I was lying in the house of the Vrouw Prinsloo alone. The
Boers had all gone, east and west and north and south, and the dead
were long buried. They had taken Henri Marais with them, so I was told,
dragging him away in a bullock cart, to which he was tied, for he was
raving mad. Afterwards he became quieter, and, indeed, lived for years,
walking about and asking all whom he met if they could lead him to
Marie. But enough of him—poor man, poor man!
The tale which got about was that Pereira had murdered Marie out of
jealousy, and been shot by her father. But there were so many tragic
histories in those days of war and massacre that this particular one
was soon quite forgotten, especially as those concerned in it for one
reason and another did not talk overmuch of its details. Nor did I talk
of it, since no vengeance could mend my broken heart.
They brought me a letter that had been found on Marie’s breast, stained
with her blood.
Here it is:
“MY HUSBAND,
“Thrice have you saved my life, and now it is my turn to save yours,
for there is no other path. It may be that they will kill you
afterwards, but if so, I shall be glad to have died first in order that
I may be ready to greet you in the land beyond.
“I drugged you, Allan, then I cut off my hair and dressed myself in
your clothes. The Vrouw Prinsloo, Hans and I set my garments upon you.
They led you out as though you were fainting, and the guards, seeing
me, whom they thought was you, standing in the doorway, let them pass
without question.
“What may happen I do not know, for I write this after you are gone. I
hope, however, that you will escape and lead some full and happy life,
though I fear that its best moments will always be shadowed by memories
of me. For I know you love me, Allan, and will always love me, as I
shall always love you.
“The light is burning out—like mine—so farewell, farewell, farewell!
All earthly stories come to an end at last, but at that end we shall
meet again. Till then, adieu. Would that I could have done more for
you, since to die for one who is loved with body, heart and soul is but
a little thing. Still I have been your wife, Allan, and your wife I
shall remain when the world is old. Heaven does not grow old, Allan,
and there I shall greet you.
“The light is dead, but—oh!—in my heart another light arises!
“Your MARIE.”
This was her letter.
I do not think there is anything more to be said.
Such is the history of my first love. Those who read it, if any ever
do, will understand why I have never spoken of her before, and do not
wish it to be known until I, too, am dead and have gone to join the
great soul of Marie Marais.
ALLAN QUATERMAIN.