"...IN EVER CLIMBING UP THE CLIMBING WAVE."
Claverton looked sharply at the speaker. The voice seemed familiar to
him, but the features less so. And then, the other had addressed him by
the name given him by the natives at the time he was living at Seringa
Vale. Not only that. He had uttered words which sounded familiar. In
a moment the floodgates of memory were opened; Claverton remembered the
midnight meeting at Spoek Krantz, and the oracle with which its
proceedings closed. Now his captor had repeated the words of that
augury, but had reversed them with grim significance. Still, he thought
he saw a glimmer of light.
"Stand up?" said the savage, peremptorily.
"Needs must where literally the devil drives," was the prisoner's reply,
given with all his wonted coolness, as he obeyed. Resistance would be
worse than useless, for it would only subject him to further indignity.
He was absolutely in their power.
"Now walk," was the next order.
"Which way?"
"_Hamba-ke_!" ["Walk, then," or "Go on."] repeated the tall Kafir--who
seemed to be the chief of the gang--and the command, uttered in a fierce
and threatening tone, was emphasised by a prod with his assegai.
Not by word or sign did the prisoner show that he even felt the sharp
dig of the weapon, though the blood was running freely down his leg.
Then they started in single file, with the prisoner in the middle, a
_reim_ fastened to his bound hands being held by the man immediately
behind him. Thus they made their way out of that moonlit valley, and
the strange procession wended on through the still, beautiful night.
The Kafirs, for the most part, kept perfect silence as they walked, and
now even Claverton was surprised by the readiness with which they got
through the dense bush, picking out the most unlikely paths, and
threading them with an ease and rapidity that savoured of the
marvellous; but although they hit upon the smoothest paths, the
prisoner's powers were sorely tried, for he had undergone no slight
strain within the last twenty-four hours, and his footsteps began to
drag in spite of himself. The first sign of this, however, met with
encouragement in the shape of a dig from the assegai of the man behind
him, accompanied by a brutal laugh. There was no help for it--he was
entirely in their hands.
"The white man is a very great warrior," remarked the Kafir whom he had
knocked down. "He can turn his hand into a club when he has no other
weapon. He is made of iron; but even iron will bend and melt in the
fire--in the fire. Whaow!" repeated the savage, with a dark, meaning
look; and Claverton knew that the reference was to his probable fate.
His probable?--nay, his certain fate.
"Look here, you fellows," said the prisoner coolly. "You're rather a
skulking lot, when all's said and done. Here you've got me in your
power--me whom you've fought fairly and openly in the field--and you
think it immense fun to give me a quiet dig now and then with your
assegais, like a lot of old women's spiteful pinches. That's not the
way in which warriors of the Amaxosa should behave, even to a prisoner."
A laugh, not wholly an ill-natured one, greeted this remonstrance.
"If you intend to cut my throat, as no doubt you do, cut it and have
done with it; but, hang it, until you do you might give a fellow a
little peace," he went on.
"Peace, peace? No, it's war now, white man--war," they replied. "Why
should we give you any peace until the time comes to roast you? That's
what we are going to do with you."
"Are you? Well, that's for the Great Chief to decide. Meanwhile, if
you were decent fellows, you'd fill me up a pipe and let me have a smoke
as we go along."
His coolness staggered them. But it stood him in good stead, for among
these people a bold and fearless mien always commands respect. The tall
chief stepped back to the prisoner's side, and filling up a pipe from
Claverton's own tobacco pouch, lighted it and gave it to him, or rather
stuck it into his mouth, with a grim laugh.
"There. You won't smoke many more pipes in this world, Lenzimbi," he
said.
The Kafirs became quite good-humoured and began to sing, or rather hum,
snatches of their war-songs as they stepped briskly out. They ceased to
ill-treat their prisoner, and even showed a disposition to talk. They
told him about the different engagements that had been fought between
them and the colonists, and how they intended to go on fighting until
every tribe had risen and joined them, and that then they would eat up
the Fingo "dogs," and ultimately, when they had fought enough, make
peace with the whites. It was of no use for him to try and persuade
them that in six months' time they would be thoroughly beaten and broken
up, and their chiefs either hanged or undergoing penal servitude as
common convicts. They laughed him to scorn. The open air, the unending
bush and impenetrable fastnesses of the rocks and caves were around them
now, the white man's warnings they treated as mere fables.
Suddenly Claverton was dragged to the earth, all the Kafirs sinking
silently and like shadows. A blanket was thrown over his head,
enveloping him in darkness and nearly suffocating him. It was
impossible for him to utter so much as a sound. A few minutes of this
silent darkness and the impromptu gag was removed. Something had
alarmed the savages, and they had taken these precautions. They now
resumed their way, and glad indeed was the prisoner to get rid of the
horrible extinguisher that had been put upon him, and breathe the fresh
air again; for a Kafir blanket, all nauseous with red ochre and grease
and something more, diffuseth not a balmy perfume.
Towards dawn they halted for a short rest, and now the air became
piercingly cold, for they were at a considerable elevation. Great
clouds worked up from seaward, and the wind arose in dull, moaning
gusts, driving the grey scud along the slopes beneath, and wrapping in a
misty veil the brow of a lofty cliff which every now and then frowned
down upon their way. Then, as it grew lighter, Claverton could just
make out a town lying far away upon the plain, glimpsed between the
slopes of the hills. It was King Williamstown, and at the sight he
thought how happily he and Lilian had driven out of it and along that
bit of road, the continuation of which he could see like a white thread
winding along over the flat. He wae roused by a voice at his elbow.
"Now, white man, we are going to start again."
Turning, he beheld the tall chief, and now, by the light of day, he
recognised this man's features. It was the man whom, with two others,
he had turned away from Umgiswe's out-station, on the morning of that
never-to-be-forgotten ride over to Thirlestane, and whom Lilian had so
much wished to see as a specimen of a real Kafir chief. He wondered if
the other recognised him.
"Do you know me now, Lenzimbi?" was the quiet, but somewhat sneering
question.
"Are you a rich man, Nxabahlana?" said Claverton, answering the query by
another, in true native fashion.
The Kafir eyed him suspiciously. "It is war-time now," he replied, with
a shrug of the shoulders; "no one can be said to be rich in war-time."
"True; but war does not last for ever. Some day there will be peace,
and then, when the whites have taken all their cattle and the Gaikas are
starving, and begging for food, supposing that Nxabahlana found he had
plenty of cattle in his kraals. He would be a rich man when all his
people were poor; and a rich man is always the most powerful chief."
A gleam in the other's eyes, and the least movement of a glance in the
direction of the rest, convinced the prisoner that he was understood,
and he began to hope.
"Supposing, then," he went on, "that when all of Nxabahlana's wives had
been captured and distributed among the Fingoes, or were half-starved
and too weak to work, and worn out, and thin, and useless, Nxabahlana
had plenty of cattle, he could buy more wives--young, and fresh, and
healthy. And then, when all the chiefs of the Gaikas were deposed and
in disgrace, supposing the Government were to say: `During the war a
white man, an officer in the colonial forces, was captured by the
Gaikas, and his life was saved by a chief who set him free, and provided
him with a horse and a guide to lead him into the colonial camp. This,
then, is the chief whom we must put in Sandili's place, although he is
of the house of the Great Chief, for he is our friend--and his name is
Nxabahlana.'"
The eyes of the savage glistened at the prospect thus opened out before
him. All Kafirs are by nature covetous, and this man's greediest
instincts were powerfully appealed to. Plenty amid scarcity--wives,
cattle, power--for that last consideration thrown out by the prisoner
had carried more weight than he thought. He, Nxabahlana, was now
disliked and distrusted by Sandili. Here, then, would be a good
opportunity of securing the favour of the Colonial Government, and
benefiting himself at the expense of his kinsman and chief.
"How many cattle will Nxabahlana find in his kraal, after the war, if
Lenzimbi goes free?" he asked.
"One hundred fat beasts," replied Claverton. He knew his man, and that
the other would take advantage of his necessity to the utmost, so he
purposely began at a low figure.
"Aow! A chief cannot buy many wives with that," was the reply, given
with a dissatisfied head-shake.
"Say one hundred and fifty, then."
But this, too, proved too little. At length, after much haggling, which
evoked many a smile from the prisoner--so strongly was his sense of
humour tickled by the notion of haggling over the price of his own life,
as if he was merely buying a waggon or a farm--a bargain was struck.
Two hundred head of cattle should be handed over to Nxabahlana at any
time and place that worthy chose to name, and if at the close of the war
Claverton's good offices should not avail to obtain for the chief a
position of considerable wealth and influence, then he was to receive
another hundred. In consideration whereof the Gaika agreed to release
his prisoner, and, if not to conduct him within the colonial lines, at
any rate to leave him in a place of safety. Not that all this was set
forth in so many words--both of them knew better than that--the others
might be listening. No, the negotiations were carried on in that dark
undercurrent of half hints, half veiled references, which the Kafirs
employ when anxious not to be readily understood by outsiders; and it
will be remembered that Claverton spoke the native languages with ease
and fluency, and, what in this instance stood him in almost better
stead, thoroughly understood the native character.
"What if Lenzimbi should _forget_ his word, when he found himself safe
among his own people?" said the savage, suspiciously. "What if when
Nxabahlana went to ask for his reward he received a bullet instead of
the cattle, or was seized and thrown into the _tronk_ as a rebel? Look.
Here is a better plan. Lenzimbi shall give the money value of half the
cattle now. He can turn paper into money by writing upon it."
"Lenzimbi isn't such a fool as he looks," was the prompt reply. "No, my
friend, you know perfectly well that you can trust me far better than I
can trust you, and as for writing you a cheque now, which I suppose is
what you mean, I couldn't if I would, because I've no paper or ink or
anything; and I wouldn't if I could, because you know, as well as I do,
that I shall keep to my side of the bargain. Besides, even if I did
what you want me to, and gave you a cheque now, how the devil could you
read it so as to make sure it was all right? Eh?"
This was conclusive.
"It will be difficult," mused the Kafir, referring to the escape. "Very
difficult. Look. Yonder is the camp of your people. We shall pass
very near it presently. Then, if you should find yourself free, make
for it as hard as you can. There is no other chance. But until after
the war is over you must keep silent about the way in which you escaped.
That is one of the conditions."
Claverton agreed to this, and now hope ran very strong within him. He
had every reason to believe that the Gaika would fulfil his word;
indeed, two powerful considerations would ensure his doing so, cupidity
and fear. For if he were denounced to Sandili as having even
contemplated such an act of treason as the release of a prisoner, his
life would not be worth a moment's purchase. After some discussion as
to the best way the order was given to start, and, with their prisoner
in their midst as before, the Kafirs resumed their march. Once
Claverton stole a side look at the chief's face, but Nxabahlana was
moody and taciturn, and when he did speak to the prisoner it was with
the rough brutality he had employed at first; but this might be only a
blind. Which was it to be--life or doom? Every chance now was in
favour of the former, and hope ran high.
Doubtless the reader will wonder at Claverton's marvellous ill-luck in
three times escaping a terrible death only to fall straight into the
hands of his enemies. When the Kafirs had abandoned their search as
useless, thinking that the white man was a wizard indeed, as Nxabahlana
had tauntingly said, that worthy, with a dozen followers, had remained
behind. Of a cynical disposition, and a very sceptic as regarded the
superstitions of his countrymen, that astute savage, although he had
been the first to start the miraculous theory as accounting for the
fugitive's disappearance, believed in it himself not one whit. He was
puzzled, he admitted, but by natural causes. He would fathom the
mystery yet; so he sneeringly watched the bulk of his countrymen move
off, while, with a few chosen followers, he remained on the watch.
Carefully they examined the ground, but, of course, found no trace of a
footmark. They searched the cave whence the fugitive had emerged, but
did not venture far into it, being influenced by two considerations.
One was that not a shadow of spoor was seen to lead into it; another, a
very natural repugnance to penetrating deep into that gloomy hole. It
was nearly dark, and if the fugitive moved at all, it would be at night.
So Nxabahlana and his warriors took up their position on the cliff a
little way above the mouth of the cavern, in a spot commanding a
considerable view of the moonlit valley, wherein nothing could move
without at once attracting their attention, and waited and watched with
the steady patience of their kind. This was at length rewarded when
they saw the object of their quest emerge, weary and exhausted, from the
cavern, walking, so to say, straight into their very jaws. The sequel
we have seen.
During the march Claverton noticed with some uneasiness, that the man
who had felt the weight of his fist was watching him very narrowly.
Whichever way he looked, this man's shrewd, suspicious glance was upon
him, and more than once it seemed to wander to the chief. Could he have
overheard? If so, it would add seriously to the difficulties in the way
of escape. But he consoled himself with the knowledge that if it was to
be effected Nxabahlana would manage it somehow.
And now, as they drew nearer to the critical spot, the sound of voices
was heard close by, causing, however, no alarm to the party, and a large
body of Kafirs, emerging from the bush, joined them. Of course a halt
was called while they exchanged news, and great was the exultation of
the new arrivals over the capture of so formidable an enemy as this
white man had proved--for his fame had spread among them. They crowded
round to look at him as he sat on the ground, some jeering, some
threatening, but all, in their heart of hearts, rather respecting the
man who sat there absolutely in their power, and yet taking no more
notice of them than if they were stones.
"Whaaow!" exclaimed a great mocking voice at his side. "Whaaow,
Lenzimbi! I told you we should meet again. You knocked me down once--
twice. It was your turn then--now it is mine," and, looking up, he
recognised at a glance his old enemy--Mopela.
"Ha--ha! I told you so, didn't I? How do you like that, Lenzimbi--how
do you like that?" continued the savage, striking him twice on the head
with the shaft of his assegai. "Yesterday, you--to-day, I. Haow!"
"What has come over the warriors of the Amaxosa that they keep such a
cur in their midst?" said Claverton, looking straight before him, and
steadily ignoring his persecutor. "Only a cur bites and worries a
helpless man, but if one even looks at a stone he runs away with his
tail between his legs, as this cur called Mopela would do if my hands
were for a moment free--even as he has done twice already."
With a yell of rage, and foaming at the mouth, Mopela flourished his
assegai within an inch of Claverton's face, but the prisoner never
flinched. It seemed that the savage was working himself up to such a
pitch that in a moment he would plunge the weapon into the body of his
helpless enemy, when his arm was seized in a firm grasp, and Nxabahlana
said, coldly:
"Stop, Mopela. You must not kill the prisoner. He belongs to the Great
Chief, Sandili."
"Yes, yes," chimed in the others, "he belongs to Sandili; he is not
ours!" And favouring Claverton with a frightful glare of disappointed
hate, Mopela fell back sullenly among the rest.
"Yes, the white man belongs to Sandili. He is not ours--he is not
ours!" repeated the Kafir whose suspicions had been awakened, with a
significant glance at his leader's face.
The latter, who, by the way, was Mopela's half-brother, ignored the
hint, and gave orders to resume the march.
"Aow!" exclaimed one of the Kafirs, suddenly stopping. "This is not the
way to Sandili."
"No, no. It isn't?" agreed several of the others.
"It takes us dangerously near the white man's camp," said the suspicious
one, stopping short with a determined air.
"And we might be attacked by a strong patrol," urged Mopela. "Senhlu is
right."
A great hubbub now arose. The Kafirs, to a man, objected to pursuing
that road any further. It was not safe, they said; they might lose the
prisoner, and perhaps all be shot themselves. No. The best plan would
be to go straight to head-quarters, and as soon as possible.
Nxabahlana saw that they were determined to have their way. He was only
a petty chief, and the great bulk of these men were not his own
clansmen; moreover, he was greatly out of favour with Sandili and
Matanzima, who would be glad of a pretext to get rid of him. He dared
not persevere in his plan; to incur further suspicion would be to court
death. So he gave way.
"I intended to have reconnoitred and carried back some news to the Great
Chief," he replied, coldly, and with a sneer. "But since you are all so
afraid of the white men that you dare not venture within three hours'
run of their camp, you can have your way. I shall carry out my scheme
alone, while you go back with the prisoner."
To this plan they one and all objected. It might be that they detected
defection in the tone of their leader's voice. He, however, deemed it
safer to fall in with their wishes.
"So be it, then," he said. "We will all go straight to Sandili." And
the whole party, turning, struck off into the deep wooded fastnesses of
the mountains; and the captive's heart sank within him, for he knew that
the plan for his deliverance had failed on the verge of its fulfilment,
and now every step carried him nearer and nearer to his death. Half an
hour ago the flame of life and hope glowed brightly; now the last spark
was extinguished in the darkness of a certain and terrible doom.
On they went--on through the dark forest, where the crimson-winged
louris flashed across the path, sounding their shrill, cheery whistle,
and monkeys skipped away with a chattering noise among the long, tangled
trailers and lichens which festooned the boughs of the massive
yellow-wood trees. Now and then an ominous, stealthy rustle betokened
the presence of some great reptile, quietly gliding away among the safe
recesses of the thicket; and high above, the harsh, resounding cry of a
huge bird of prey floated from a mighty cliff overhanging the line of
march. All these things the prisoner noted as a dying man looks at the
trivial sights and sounds of earth; for he knew he should never leave
this place alive. The clouds had cleared off, and now the sun's rays
poured down upon his head like molten fire; fortunately for them the
Kafirs had left him his hat, or their captive would have been snatched
out of their merciless grasp by a sunstroke, long before he reached the
place of torture and death.
At about noon they halted; and one of the Kafirs, advancing a little way
ahead, uttered a loud, strange call. It was answered, and, being
beckoned to come on, the whole party moved forward and joined him. Then
they formed up in a column, and, striking up a war-song, they stepped
out, beating time with the handles of their sticks and assegais; those
nearest to him, turning every now and then to brandish their weapons in
the prisoner's face.
And now they entered an open space covered with huts--these, however,
being of a very temporary order--and a swarm of human beings crowded out
to meet them. A few starved-looking dogs rushed forward, yelping, but
were promptly driven back with stones; and men, women, and children,
stood eagerly watching the return of the warriors, and speculating
loudly on the identity and probable fate of the captive.
Grasping instinctively the capabilities of the place, Claverton saw that
he was on a kind of plateau, shut in on three sides by high, wooded
slopes and rugged krantzes, while on the fourth, which was open, he
could just make out a wide stretch of country far away beneath. The
cunning old Gaika chieftain had well chosen his eyrie of a hiding-place.
On every side, however, the bush grew thickly right up to the huts,
which were built in a circle. Claverton noted, moreover, that, save for
a few very indifferent cows, there was no cattle anywhere about, and
that the people themselves were looking lean and starved, and drew his
own conclusions accordingly.
With many a shrill laugh, and chattering like magpies, the women crowded
round to look at the prisoner as he sat in the midst of his captors and
guards, stoically indifferent to his fate. Hideous, toothless crones,
whose wrinkled hides hung about them in a succession of disgusting
flaps; crushed-looking middle-aged women and plump, well-made girls, all
in different stages of undress. One of the latter slily put out her
hand and gave Claverton a sharp pinch on the arm, amid screams of
laughter from her fellows as they watched its effect upon the
countenance of the captive.
"Yaow!" they cried. "The white man cannot feel. See, he does not
move!"
Then a frightful hag stepped in front of the prisoner, and, amid a
torrent of invective, began brandishing a butcher-knife within an inch
of his nose.
"Ah--wolf--white snake--vulture's spawn!" she yelled. "We will spoil
your handsome face for you. Our young men are lying about the land in
thousands, and the jackals are devouring their carcases, and it is your
work. For every one of their lives you shall undergo a pang that will
make you pray for death. Do you hear, tiger-cat; do you hear?" screamed
the hag in a frenzy of rage.
Again a grim smile was upon Claverton's face. The idea of him, who had
made himself felt in sober earnest, who had escaped peril and death so
narrowly and so often, coming to this--that it was in the power of such
a thing as this to cut his throat like a fowl.
"He dares to laugh!" yelled the she-devil, brandishing her knife and
clawing him by the hair. Just then one of the warriors took her by the
shoulders and sent her spinning a dozen yards off, where she lay on the
ground foaming with rage.
"_Hamba-ke_! Leave the prisoner alone. He belongs to the chief!"
At a sign from the speaker a girl came forward rather timidly and held a
bowl to the captive's lips. It contained curdled milk, with some
mealie-paste thrown in. It was cool and refreshing, and Claverton drank
deeply.
"Thanks," he said, with a nod and a pleasant smile. "That's good."
The rest of the contents of the bowl were drained by his guards; and the
girl, retiring amongst her companions with many a sidelong glance at the
prisoner, remarked, in a half whisper, what a handsome fellow the white
man was, and she was sure he must be a very great chief, and it was a
shame to kill such a man as this.
And now a commotion arose on the other side of the kraal. All eyes were
turned, and so grotesque was the sight that met his glance that
Claverton could hardly keep from laughing outright. In the centre of a
group of women and children, who were hustling him along, was a man--a
white man. On his head was a tall black hat, the puggaree had been
impounded by one of his captors. His arms were bound to his sides,
while his long-tailed coat, now in a woeful and tattered condition, hung
about his legs. Some brat, more mischievous than the rest, would every
now and then swing on to its tails, or bestow a severe pinch underneath,
while buffets of every description seemed the sufferer's momentary
portion. His eyes were starting out of his head with fear, and his
countenance was more abject than ever. In this miserable-looking
specimen of British humanity Claverton recognised his companion in
adversity--the missionary, Swaysland.
"Yaow--man of peace--get on!" yelled the rabble, hustling the poor
wretch forward. One urchin leaped upon his back, and nearly made his
teeth meet in the tip of his ear, while another playfully flicked him on
the cheek with the lash of a toy-whip. Altogether the unfortunate
missionary seemed to be having a bad time of it.
"Is there too much light, _Umfundisi_?" mocked a young woman, as he
blinked his eyes, partly to dodge an expected blow, partly because the
sudden glare of the sun tried them. "There, now it is dark. Is that
better?" and she banged the tall hat down over the luckless man's eyes,
head and face, thereby performing the operation known to the uncivilised
Briton as "bonneting." A scream of laughter from the barbarous mob
greeted this performance, which increased as, with the "chimney-pot"
sticking over his head and face, their victim stumbled forward,
completely blinded. Scattering the women, two of the warriors roughly
removed this visual obstruction, and marched him up to where Claverton
was sitting.
"Hallo, Mr Swaysland, I never expected to see you again in this
terrestrial orb!"
There was something almost cheerful in this greeting, and the poor
missionary felt hopeful.
"How did you escape? I am so glad!" he began in a tone of breathless
relief. "Now you will be able to interpret for me. I am sure they
would not have ill-treated me if I could have made them understand who I
am. And they have ill-treated me shockingly--shockingly."
"Why! Can't you talk their lingo?"
"No. I have only been in this country a few months. Ah, why did I
leave Islington! I was President of the Young Men's Christian
Association there, and I must needs come to convert the heathen in this
benighted country. I was afternoon preacher at--"
"Yes, yes," interrupted his companion in adversity. "But I'm afraid
that won't inspire John Kafir with either respect or compunction. What
do you want me to tell them?"
"Tell them that I am the Rev Josiah Swaysland, and that I belong to
the Mount Ararat Mission Station. Tell them that I am the Kafir's
friend, and that I gave up a comfortable place in a high-class drapery
establi--er--ah--er--I mean in a--er--in easy circumstances at home, in
order to come and be their friend. Tell them to let me go. I am not a
fighting man. I am a man of peace, and never did them any harm. Tell
them--"
"That's enough for one sitting," said Claverton, with a sneer of
profound contempt for the other's egotism and cowardice. It was all
"I--I," "Let _me_ go." A brutal laugh was the only answer which the
savages vouchsafed.
"Ha!" they mocked. "A man of peace! What are men of peace doing here
in war-time? This is not the land for a man of peace!"
Nevertheless, Claverton did his best to obtain the other's release, and
disinterestedly, too, for he knew that long before his own position
could be made known he himself would be a dead man. He represented to
the Kafirs--very contemptuously, it must be admitted--that the
missionary was a pitiful devil, not worth the trouble of killing; that
they could gain no good by it; but might by releasing him, as he would
be only too ready to trumpet their generosity far and wide. They only
shook their heads in response to all his arguments. They had no voice
in the matter; it was a question for the chief to decide.
"What do they say?" anxiously inquired Swaysland.
"They can do nothing. It all depends upon Sandili. He will be back
this evening, and then our fate will be settled."
The other shuddered.
"You seem to take things very calmly, Mr Claverton," said he, at
length.
"Well, yes. What on earth's the good of kicking up a row? It won't
mend matters."
"Oh! God help us!" wailed the missionary, in mortal fear.
"That's about our only chance. But you don't seem to calculate over
much on the contingency," rejoined his companion, with a very visible
sneer.
"Don't talk like that--don't, I beg you. Remember our awful position."
"`The devil was ill, the devil a monk would be,'" quoted the other, with
a bitter laugh. "I've been in `awful positions' before now, on more
than one occasion, but this time I verily believe it's all UP. My God
has quarrelled with me, as that long devil over yonder graciously
informed me last night."
Swaysland stared at him in amazement. Here was a man with torture and
death before him in a few hours, talking as calmly and as cynically as
if he was having his evening pipe. He had never even heard of anything
like this before, and, if he had, would not have believed it.
"Now, look here," continued Claverton. "I don't want to raise any false
hopes, mind that; but I think it's just possible that they may let you
go. You see, the chiefs always like to stand well with the
missionaries, not because they believe in them, but because Exeter Hall
is a power in the land, worse luck. Now, you represent that you're no
end of a swell in that connection, and that you'll do great things for
them if they let you go. But, whatever you do, don't promise to leave
the country by way of an inducement."
"But if they ask me?"
"They won't. On the contrary. If you leave the country, you can be of
no further service to them, and they know it. It is only by remaining
here and saying what fine, generous fellows they are, that you can do
them any good. In fact, I think you stand a very fair chance; but, as I
say, I don't want to raise any false hopes."
"Really, I declare I am quite hopeful already. If I get away, never
again will I set foot in these frightful wilds," vehemently replied this
preacher of the Gospel. "But, about yourself?" he added, ashamed of his
egotism, a consciousness of which had just begun to dawn upon him.
"Oh, I? Well, I'm a gone coon. There isn't a chance for me. They know
me too well." Then, as if moved by a sudden impulse, he added: "If you
escape you might do me a service. It isn't a very big thing."
"I pledge you my word that I will. What is it?"
"Find out a man named Payne--George Payne. He's from Kaffraria, but at
present he's living in Grahamstown, and--tell him--tell them--all--that
you saw the last of me."
"I will--I will. But--"
"Do you know this, Lenzimbi?" and Mopela stood confronting him, with a
diabolical grin upon his face. As he spoke he removed an old rag from
over something he carried, disclosing to view a hideous object. It was
a human head, and in the swollen, distorted lineaments, the glazed eyes,
and the sandy beard all matted with gore, Claverton recognised the
features of the unhappy Boer, Cornelius Oppermann. At this ghastly
sight Swaysland started back, his face livid with terror, and trembling
in every limb.
"Look at it, Lenzimbi. Look at it. One of your countrymen," went on
the savage, thrusting the frightful object within an inch of the
prisoner's nose. It had begun to decompose, for the weather was hot,
and it was all that Claverton could do to restrain his repugnance.
"I see it," he replied, self-possessedly. "Any one but a fool would
know that that article of furniture had belonged to a Dutchman, whom
every one but a fool would know was _not_ `one of my countrymen.'"
"Hey, Mopela, take it away!" cried the bystanders, disgustedly. "We
don't want to be killed by the carcase of a stinking Boer," and, with a
grin of malice, the barbarian chucked the hideous trophy at a small boy
who was passing, and who bolted with a panic-stricken yell.
"Here, _Umfundisi_, you have talked long enough; you must go back to
your hut," said Nxabahlana. The poor missionary's heart sank within
him. Claverton's conversation, though sadly profane, had cheered him
up, and now he was to be alone again.
"Good-bye, in case we do not meet again," he said, with more feeling
than he had hitherto displayed--on other account than his own, that is.
"Good-bye. Keep your spirits up, and don't forget to make the most of
yourself," replied Claverton. "And remember Payne--George Payne."
"Now then, _Umfundisi_," impatiently exclaimed one of the Kafirs,
dragging him by the shoulder. Swaysland walked dejectedly away, glad of
the Kafir's escort to protect him from the ill-treatment of the women
and children; and Claverton, leaning back, wondered, dreamily, what the
deuce would be his own fate. So the hours dragged their slow length;
and it was with but scant hope that the captives awaited the arrival of
the Gaika chief.