Tired of gazing at the prisoner, and realising, moreover, that there was
not much fun to be got out of one who took matters so coolly, the women
and children ceased to crowd round him, and he was left very much, to
himself. It was broiling hot, and every now and then upon the sultry
hushened air came the discharge of firearms in the far distance.
Evidently the rival forces were making targets of each other; but it was
probably only a slight skirmish with some patrol, and Claverton did not
allow himself to hope anything from the circumstance. The Kafirs, too,
seemed in no way to trouble themselves about it.
"Time passes slowly, doesn't it, Lenzimbi?" said Mopela, mockingly. "It
passed quicker sitting by the pool at midnight, you and the tall dark
lily at Seringa Vale. How well you looked together! Why didn't you
bring her here with you, eh? It would have been much more comfortable
for you, and for us, ha, ha!"
At that moment Claverton would have bartered his life to be free to
spring upon the jibing savage and tear him in pieces with his bare
hands. But it is safe to worry a chained mastiff, if only the chain is
strong enough.
"Ha! ha! What will the dark lily say when you do not return to her?"
went on Mopela. "When she hears how you were cut in pieces like a
sheep, or roasted. Once we killed a man by putting red-hot stones upon
him. At last they slid off, but we held them on again with sticks. He
was two days dying. That was for witchcraft. Another was smeared over
with honey, and a nest of black ants was broken over him. They stung
him, they got into his ears, and nose, and eyes, and stung him
everywhere. He died raving mad. Another was skinned alive, and then
his skin was sewn round him again. Another was hung by the heels over a
slow fire, and his eyes were put out with red-hot fire-sticks. Which of
these things would you rather have happen to you, Lenzimbi?" concluded
the Kafir with a hideous laugh.
"Nothing of the kind will happen to me," was the imperturbable reply.
A low boom of thunder smote upon the air--long, very distant, but
distinctly audible. On the farthest horizon a little cloud was just
visible. The slightest suspicion of a superstitious misgiving was in
the breasts of the bystanders. How could this man preserve such perfect
imperturbability unless he were sure of some miraculous deliverance?
"Will it not?" jeered Mopela. "What will happen then?"
"Wait and see. If you have been telling me those interesting stories to
try and frighten me--well, then, Mopela, you're a bigger fool than even
I took you for, and have been taking a vast deal of trouble about
nothing. But now, if it's all the same to you, I think I'll go to
sleep."
They stared at him. Here was a marvellous thing. These white men, too,
were so afraid of pain; and this one, whom in a few hours they intended
to burn alive, announced his intention of going to sleep. But they
offered no objection. He was in their eyes a natural curiosity, and to
be studied as such.
And he actually did sleep, and slept soundly, too, so that two hours
later when the whole kraal was astir and in a commotion, he awoke quite
refreshed. The arbiters of his fate had arrived.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
The chief, Sandili, a refugee with the remnant of his tribe in the
fastnesses of the Amatola forest, was a very different personage to the
sleek, well-fed, benevolent-looking old "sponge" who had asked for
sixpences when sitting against the wall of the Kaffrarian trading-store.
To begin with, he was sober, a state he could rarely plead guilty to
during the piping times of peace. But there were no canteens in these
rugged strongholds, and the very limited supply of liquor that could be
smuggled in was but as a drop in the bucket to this habitual old toper.
His temper, too, was peevish and uncertain, whether owing to the
supplies of grog being cut off, or the reverses sustained by his arms,
was open to debate. So when this prisoner stood before him as he sat in
front of his hut surrounded by his _amapakati_ [councillors] and
attendants, the old chief's countenance wore none of its former
friendliness and geniality.
One swift glance at the rows of dark, impassive faces, whose eyes were
fixed upon him, keenly noting every point of his demeanour, and
Claverton saluted the chief--easily, naturally, and as between equals.
A murmur ran through the group in acknowledgment, and every eye was bent
upon the prisoner. For some moments they regarded each other in
silence, and then Sandili spoke.
"Who are you, white man, and what are you doing here?"
"Who am I? The chief will recollect that we have met before. Does he
not remember Thompson's store and the man who talked with him there?
That was myself."
Again a hum of assent ran through the group, and the chief sat gazing at
his prisoner as if in deep thought. And what an unaccountable turn of
fate it seemed to Claverton! The last time he had talked with this man
he had felt for him a good-humoured, contemptuous kind of pity as he
gave him the trifling gifts which the other had asked for; and Lilian's
sweet eyes had looked upon the old savage with a delicious air of
half-frightened interest, much as she might have regarded a tame old
lion, and then they had ridden so light-heartedly away, without much
thought of the evil to come. How vividly that day came back to him
now--now, as he once more stood before the old chief, whose lightest
word was sufficient to decide his fate! Verily, the turns in the wheel
of Fortune are capricious.
Seeing that no one was in a hurry to break the silence, Claverton
continued:
"As to what I am doing here, I was brought here, very much against my
will, I admit. Our friends here drove me over a cliff higher than that
one yonder," pointing to one that overhung the hollow; "but I stopped
half-way down and got inside. Then I walked down through the heart of
the earth, and came out at the foot of the cliff, where your people
found me."
"What childishness is this?" said the chief, sternly. "Are we children
and fools that you tell us such tales, white man?"
"Ask those who brought me here if it is not as I say," was the cool
reply.
A rapid conversation took place among the Kafirs, many of whom confirmed
the prisoner's statement. It was an unaccountable thing, they said; but
the white man seemed to be something of a sorcerer. Anyhow, all that he
said about the cliff was true.
And now a fresh excitement took place in the shape of some new arrivals,
some mounted, some on foot. Claverton noticed a stoutly-built man in
European clothing, who seemed rather to shrink back as if anxious to
avoid observation.
"Who is that?" he asked of his guards during the slight confusion that
followed.
"Gonya--Sandili's son," was the reply.
This Gonya, or Edmund Sandili, as he was known to the colonists, had
received a civilised education, and, at the time of the outbreak, held a
post as clerk and interpreter in the Civil Service of the colony. This
post he had thrown up in order to cast in his lot with his own people--a
course which, whether that of a traitorous rebel or self-sacrificing
patriot, is a matter of opinion.
"And who is the _Umfundisi_?" he went on, in an ironical tone, glancing
in the direction of a thoroughbred Kafir who was arrayed in a clerical
suit of black, with which, and with the white choker adorning his
throat, the rifle he carried in his hand seemed startlingly out of
keeping.
"Ha! that's Dukwana. He's a real _Umfundisi_ at Emgwali. He can pray
well, but he can shoot better," replied the barbarian, with a sneering
laugh. "Ha! there's Matanzima--Sandili's other son. He _is_ a
warrior?"
"Yes, I know him," said Claverton, as he watched his former enemy join
the group and seat himself near his father. The old chief looked not
best pleased at the interruption as he turned frowningly towards his
impetuous son.
"Where is the prisoner?" the latter was saying. "Aha! white man, we
have caught you at last!" he went on, as Claverton again stood before
the group.
"Why did you not `catch' me that day in the thorns, when we met in real
battle, Matanzima?" he retorted. "That was a good rough-and-tumble,
wasn't it?"
The other showed all his white teeth and laughed. He had a pleasing
face--bold, daring, and reckless. Then they began questioning the
prisoner about the colonial movements. To each query he replied with a
readiness that astonished them.
"You are not misleading us?" said one of the _amapakati_, threateningly.
"Why do you tell us all your countrymen's moves so readily?"
"I am not misleading you, because not the slightest advantage would be
gained by it; the result will be the same, anyhow. I tell you, Sandili,
and all you _amapakati_, that you are going straight to destruction.
You had much better make terms before it is too late. You can get
better terms now than a month hence."
A murmur of amazement ran round the assembly. Here was a prisoner--a
bound, helpless prisoner--talking to them, the chiefs and councillors of
the Gaika nation, like a victorious general dictating terms! It was a
thing unheard of.
Suddenly a strange interruption occurred. A figure bounded into the
midst--a frightful figure, with long, gaunt limbs and gleaming eyes.
From neck, and shoulder, and wrist, and ankle, dangled beads, and cows'
tails, and feathers, and magic strings of birds' beaks and claws, while
the creature's body wae hideously tattooed from head to foot. Of tall
stature, a coif, consisting of a huge snake's skin all entwined with the
claws of scorpions, made him look even taller. With a long, wild
beast-like howl, this hideous object stood poised on one foot before the
group.
"Treason! Treason!" he mouthed.
All started; each man, by an involuntary movement, looking uneasily at
his neighbour. In one glance Claverton recognised this
diabolical-looking creature. It was the wizard, Nomadudwana.
"Treason! Treason?" he repeated, foaming at the mouth and gnashing his
teeth.
"What does the sorcerer mean?" asked Sandili. "Who is the traitor?"
"There is a white prisoner here," bellowed the wizard. "He belongs to
us. He belongs to the nation--to the Great Chief--to me--to us all--for
we shall all take of the war-medicine which I will make out of his
heart. He is a brave man; his heart will make strong war-medicine. The
Great Chief, Sandili, is our father; but there is treason in his house--
in his own house!" And again the hideous wizard broke into a series of
prolonged and diabolical howls. "There is one here who would have
deprived us of our spoil," he went on; "who would have released our
prisoner and enriched himself; who would have gone over to the white men
and betrayed us, his brethren--betrayed the Great Chief, his father, and
the head of his father's house!"
The councillors were visibly agitated. Though their consciences were
clear, it might be in the purpose of Nomadudwana to denounce any one of
them. A shout of wrath went up from the crowd beyond.
"Who is the traitor? What is his name? He must be killed!" exclaimed
the Kafirs, gripping their sticks and assegais. "Name him! Name him!"
The wizard glared around, and many a bold spirit quailed before the
glance of those dreaded eyes.
"The traitor is of the house of the Great Chief--of his own house.
Where is Nxabahlana?"
A loud murmur of mingled amazement and relief arose, succeeded by
ominous mutterings.
"Here!" roared the warrior named, springing into the circle and
confronting his denouncer. "Here! What have you to say against
Nxabahlana? Liar, fool, juggler! Out with it, before I cut out your
lying tongue!"
"Stop!" cried Matanzima. "Stop! We must hear what all have to say. If
Nxabahlana is true, he need fear nothing. Where is Senhlu?"
Then stepped forward the suspicious one, and narrated how his leader had
been in close confabulation with the captive, whom he--Senhlu--had heard
him agree to release, on condition of receiving five hundred head of
cattle (exaggeration Number 1); further stipulating that, when the
whites were victorious, Sandili and Matanzima should be slain, and he,
Nxabahlana, put into their place (exaggeration Number 2). He told how
anxious his leader had been to go dangerously near the white men's camp,
and how he and Mopela had stirred up the others to resist this plan,
feeling sure that their said leader intended to desert and betray them.
As he concluded, the ominous murmur had risen to angry shouts, and every
eye was bent upon the accused with a glare of vengeful wrath. But the
object of it never quailed. He stood cold, erect, and disdainful--his
tall, herculean frame looking quite majestic, as with a sneer on his
face he listened unmoved to the shouts of execration around him. And
Claverton, for the time, forgot his own position in the vivid interest
which this unlooked-for turn of affairs afforded him. He could see that
the whole thing was a plot, and he felt quite sympathetic towards his
captor and would-be deliverer, who he saw was doomed, otherwise no
common fellow like Senhlu would dare raise his voice against a kinsman
of the Great Chief.
"It is a lie!" shouted the accused, waving his hand in the air. "It is
a lie. Give this lying sorcerer a weapon and let us meet hand to hand.
I will kill him and then whip Senhlu like a dog--my dog that turns to
bite me. Listen, Ama Nqgika. Who has been in the front rank whenever
we fought the whites? Nxabahlana. Who has shot three of them with his
own hand, and seven dogs of Fingoes besides? Nxabahlana. Who has lost
the whole of his possessions--cattle, wives, even his very dogs--in the
cause of his people? Nxabahlana. Even now," he went on, working
himself up into a pitch of fervid eloquence, "even now, look at me. Am
I afraid? Am I afraid of any man living? Who remained on the watch all
night and captured this white man, when all the rest were afraid of him
and had given up the search? Nxabahlana. Well, then--is it likely I
should wish to let him escape? Is it, I say? Surely none but a fool
would do this. None but a child like Senhlu. None but a covetous,
jackal-faced impostor like Nomadudwana. None but a wolf who devours his
own flesh and blood, like Mopela. None but these. Certainly not a
warrior. Certainly not Nxabahlana--a warrior, a man of the house of
Nqgika. Is the Great Chief, Sandili, a child? Are the _amapakati_
children that they should have their ears filled with such childish
tales? It is absurd, I say--absurd."
He ceased, and a hum of mingled doubt and anger greeted his words.
"Nxabahlana talks well," said Matanzima, with a gleam of malice in his
eyes. "But we know that the whites are very liberal towards traitors.
We know that if we are conquered the man who stood the white man's
friend will be well rewarded. When a prisoner is in our hands we do not
go and look in at the enemy's camp on our way home for nothing.
Nxabahlana talks of children. Who but a child would do such a thing as
this?" concluded he, in a tone of significant cunning.
"A traitor! A traitor!" howled the wizard. "How shall we hold our own
with a traitor in our midst?"
And the crowd answered with yells of execration, even the women in the
background screaming and brandishing sticks.
"Ha! Matanzima is a boy," replied the accused in scornful accents.
"Let him be silent when he is by his father's side. Now listen. Here
is the white prisoner himself. Let the Great Chief--let the _amapakati_
ask him. Ask him whether I agreed to release him."
It was a bold stroke. A brief glance at Claverton's face had inspired
the Gaika warrior that here might lie his chance of safety. It was,
indeed, a bold stroke, thus throwing himself upon the mercy of the
captive. As for Claverton, the unbounded courage of the man filled him
with admiration, and on that account alone he would willingly have saved
his life, apart from any other consideration.
"Ask him, I say," repeated Nxabahlana. "Ask the prisoner whether
anything passed between us."
"Ewa! Ewa!" [Yes--yes] echoed the crowd, "ask him?"
"Is this true, white man?" asked Sandili. "Are the words of Nxabahlana
true?"
All eyes were bent upon Claverton, and there was a hush that might have
been felt. Every ear was strained to catch his answer. It came in a
bold, clear voice.
"Yes. They are. The words of Nxabahlana are true."
"But what of the wizard and Senhlu? You heard what they said."
"They are liars."
The whole assembly was taken aback. Not a man present but expected the
answer would be unfavourable to the accused, and it may be added, that
not a man present believed it now that it was the reverse. Wherefore
Claverton went up a hundredfold in their estimation, for had he not just
excelled in one of their most cherished virtues--the art of lying well
when convenient; and he, himself, felt a glow of satisfaction over
having saved this brave man's life; but even he forgot that among the
Kafirs it is not necessary to convict a subject obnoxious to his chief,
to ensure that subject's condemnation.
"There!" exclaimed Nxabahlana, triumphantly, drawing his gigantic figure
up to its full height. "You hear what the prisoner has said! Now let
my accusers stand forth. Where are they?" and he looked searchingly
around. There was dead silence. No one moved; but the eyes of the
councillors were bent upon him with an ominous glance, and, meeting that
glance, Nxabahlana knew that he was a doomed man. Yet he was game to
the very last.
"Where are they?" he repeated. "Ah, they have hidden themselves, and
well they may. But I appeal to the Great Chief. Let him order my
traducers to stand before my face. I claim my rights. The Great Chief
cannot refuse," and in his eagerness he made two steps towards where
Sandili was sitting.
Now it happened that Nxabahlana held in his hand a kerrie--just such an
ordinary stick as the Kafirs always carry. He had better have dropped
it before approaching his chief; but at the moment he forgot everything
in his excitement. Not that the difference would have been great either
way, for they were determined to get rid of him.
"I claim my rights! The Great Chief cannot refuse!" he repeated,
standing with outstretched arm, and looking Sandili straight in the
eyes.
The old chief started slightly. A dark expression came into his
countenance as he gazed upon his audacious subject for a few moments in
silence.
"What!" he exclaimed, in tones of indignation, "What is this? Who is
this that dares to command his chief? Who is this that approaches me
with threats? Who is this that dares to threaten his chief? _Have I no
men_?" and he looked around with a volume of meaning in his fierce eyes.
Like a spark applied to an explosive the glance told. There was a rash
forward on the part of the crowd, a swift flash or two, and a gleam as
of the sunlight upon steel. The throng separated, and upon the ground
lay the huge frame of Nxabahlana, the hot life-blood welling from
half-a-dozen assegai wounds in his chest and sides.
It was a dastardly act, and, although he knew that the victim had richly
deserved his fate, yet Claverton felt that the weight of evidence was in
his favour, and he should, at any rate, have been allowed to meet his
accusers face to face. But little time had he to indulge in regrets on
another's behalf, for now all eyes were turned upon him with a
bloodthirsty glare, and voices began to clamour that the white prisoner
should be given over to them.
And as he looked upon the wild scene it seemed hardly credible to
Claverton that scarcely forty-eight hours had gone since he had left
Lilian and set his face eastward to carry out his plan of revenge. He
glanced down the line of stern, relentless countenances, where sat the
chief and his councillors, the late victim of their tyrannous vengeance
bleeding at their very feet; but in the shrewd, rugged features he could
detect no hope of mercy. Around, hemming him in, crowded the clamouring
savages, their fierce eyes burning with a lust for blood. Behind them
he caught a glimpse of a large fire, wherein a group of women and boys
were heating bits of iron red-hot, and he had small doubt as to the use
to which that fire would be put. The only man who might have befriended
him was lying dead at his feet, and the weapons that had done the deed
had slain his own hopes. His time had come.
"Give me a drink of water," said the prisoner.
They brought him some in a bowl. His arms were bound to his sides at
the elbows, but his hands were free, and he took a long, deep drink.
This attention conveyed to him no false hopes; he had no doubt as to his
ultimate fate. He looked around. The sun, which was nearing its
western bed, had sunk behind a heavy bank of cloud which loomed upon the
horizon, and a roll of thunder stirred the still, hot afternoon. The
storm which had been threatening all day was drawing near.
And now the wizard, decked in all his hideous paraphernalia, bounded
into the midst.
"Hear, now, Sandili, Great Chief, of the house of Gaika! Hear, ye
_amapakati_! Hear, all ye warriors of the race of Gaika!" he cried.
"For two moons we have been fighting the English. For two moons we have
shed our blood and given our best lives in the endeavour to drive the
English into the sea. Have we been successful? We and our brethren,
the Ama Gcaleka, who can show twenty warriors for every one of the
English, have spent our strength in vain. Whenever we met them the
English have driven us back. Even when we met them--a mere handful that
we ought to have eaten up--we have been driven back before their charmed
bullets. They have charmed bullets and charmed guns which they keep on
firing without loading. Why can we do nothing against these English?
Listen, and I will tell you. You see the man before you? _He_ is their
sorcerer. _He_ it is who causes our bullets to fly off them without
harming them. He is in every fight. Who can mention a battle that this
man was not present in? Now we have this sorcerer in our midst. What
shall we do with him, I say? Shall we let him go? My magic is stronger
than his; I have delivered him into your hands. Will you, then, suffer
him to escape again? Cut his bonds and let him free, and you will all
be destroyed."
A roar of execration was the answer to this appeal. Weapons were
brandished, and the crowd pressed closer around.
"Give him to us!" they yelled. "See, there is a fire; we will burn him,
one limb at a time."
"Old men, where are your sons?" went on the wizard. "Young men, where
are your brothers? Where are they? Ask the vulture of the rocks, the
wolf and the wild dog of the forest, even the skulking jackal who
burrows in the earth. Ask the breezes of the air, which blow over their
whitening bones where they lie by thousands, slain by the charmed
bullets of the English. Hark; I hear their voices in the wind--the
voices of their spirits crying for vengeance. I hear it in the trees,
in the rocks, in yon thundercloud which is drawing nearer and nearer,"
and at his words a heavy boom was heard, followed by a spasmodic
rustling gust violently agitating the surrounding bush, and stirring up
the air around. With awe-stricken looks, his superstitious listeners
bent their heads. "Yes," roared the ferocious demon, working himself
into a state of frenzy. "Do you not hear them? They are
crying--`Vengeance! Vengeance! Vengeance!' And we, who are left--are
we not hunted like wild beasts? Are we not driven from bush to bush by
these white men--who have not a tenth of our number--by them and our
dogs the Fingoes? Soon shall we follow our brethren, and the name of
Gaika will exist no more. Here is a white man! Here is the destroyer
of our race. Shall we not make him weep out in tears of blood the woe
which has come upon us? Shall we not make him writhe in torment for
many days, to appease the spirits of our slaughtered sons? We await the
word of the Great Chief!"
Every eye was fixed upon the semicircle of grey-bearded councillors
seated round the chief--dark, stern, and immovable. With bodies bent
forward, and a wolfish, bloodthirsty grin, the warriors stood scanning
the expression of the impassive countenances before them, eagerly
awaiting the word, which they doubted not would be given. Again
reverberated that thunder-roll--nearer still--as half the sky was hidden
beneath an inky shroud, and the dull red flash gleamed from its depths.
One of those storms which, in the hot weather, break with such fearful
violence over the wilds of Southern Africa, would shortly be upon them.
But "the word" remained still unspoken. Sandili--whose pliant,
vacillating nature ever ready to yield to the pressure of circumstances
or to the advice of whoever had his ear last, was so powerfully appealed
to--would have spoken it, and ended the difficulty; but it was evident
that the councillors were not unanimous on the point. On the one hand,
the nation was clamouring for the captive's life; on the other, some of
the councillors were clearly opposed to the expediency of sacrificing
it, and even the Great Chief dared not fly dead in the teeth of their
advice without some show of debate. So he gave orders that the prisoner
should be removed out of hearing while they talked, but that he should
not be harmed.
"We have heard what Nomadudwana, the seer, has told us," said the chief,
looking inquiringly around. "Shall we then allow the prisoner to go
free?"
Now the wizard was hated and despised by the older men of the tribe,
though among the younger he was in the zenith of his popularity as a
fierce and unswerving preacher of a crusade among the whites.
Consequently the mention of his name struck a chord calculated to tune
the whole instrument in Claverton's favour. The mutterings of Matanzima
and a few of the younger men, to the effect that a prisoner ought to be
treated in the accustomed way--_i.e._ handed over to the people without
all this _indaba_--were stifled by the decided and dissenting
head-shakes of many of their seniors.
Then one of the _amapakati_ spoke. He was a very old man; and an
expectant murmur greeted his appearance.
"It is Tyala!" murmured the group. "Hear Tyala--he is wise!"
"My chief, Sandili," began the old man, in a low, earnest voice; "my
brethren, the wise men and councillors of the house of Gaika; my
children, its warriors--listen to my words, which have always been
spoken for your welfare. Have they not?"
An emphatic hum of assent having testified to the veneration in which
the speaker was held, he proceeded:
"I am an old man now, far older than most of you here, and, as I look
back upon the past of the Gaika nation I look forward all the more
gladly to the grave. There was a time when we possessed the land; a
time when our chiefs were feared almost from sea to sea; a time when our
people dwelt at ease, and their cattle lowed upon a thousand hills; when
the hearts of our young men were glad, and the songs of our young women
resounded among the rustling corn. All was then well with us. The
fountains gushed from yon cool forests, and the pastures were green, and
our eyes were glad, for we dwelt in the fairest land that eye could look
upon. The whites, our neighbours, did not molest us, but traded with us
many things which now we cannot do without. Why did we not keep what we
had got? We could not. There came a demon among us, and we could not
sit still. We made war.
"What was the result? We were beaten, driven back. We lost our
warriors by hundreds, and our cattle were taken. We lost a portion even
of our lands. Here was a lesson to us--to us who proudly thought we
could eat up the whites because they were so few. But we would not
learn. We made war again; and this time we fought well, but it was of
no use, again we were beaten. And this time the white man gave us back
the land which he had taken from us--gave it us back! Was ever such a
thing heard of before? Did not this show that he desired to save us--to
treat us as his friends? Yet we could not sit still. Evil counsels
prevailed among us, false prophets sprang up, and lured the people to
destruction. They went--poor blind sheep--they went straight to the
slaughter. What could I do--I, Tyala? It was in vain that I warned and
entreated; in vain that I lifted up my voice day and night against their
besotted folly. They even threatened to take my life--my wretched life;
that, they were quite welcome to if it would but save them from
themselves. The counsels of the false prophets prevailed. The war-cry
was raised again.
"Why should I go on? The rest you all know. We lost what we had
retaken before, but even the third time the English forgave us poor
deluded people, and then, when the famine came they fed us when we were
starving and crept to their doors to beg for food. Why did they not
kill us all then, when we were in their hands? And now look around;
look at the fair lands which are about to be taken from us--rather which
we ourselves have given up because we could not rest quiet upon them.
Are they not large enough? Are they not fertile enough? Are our
streams not abundant enough, and our pastures not rich enough? Yet we
have thrown all this away because the chiefs of the house of Gaika have
allowed themselves to be led astray by a parcel of youths, a parcel of
boys, who had never seen war and must needs clamour for it as for a new
plaything. And what is the result? Look at us now--hunted into our
stronghold, tracked like criminals and wild beasts. And yet, I say, it
is all our own doing."
The old man's voice had become strong and firm as he spoke, though it
shook slightly with the halting tremor of age. As he paused, many a
deep murmur from his auditors told that his words had struck home.
"Who warned you against all this?--Tyala. Who warned you against the
words of the false prophets?--Tyala. Who warned you against the rifles
of the English?--Tyala. Whose voice has ever been raised in your
behalf, in council, in diplomacy, even in the battle?--That of Tyala.
But it has never been heeded. Now listen, my chief Sandili; and you,
_amapakati_, my brothers. Here is a chance to stand well with the
English, our conquerors; for they are our conquerors, even now. Do not
throw it away. This man, our prisoner, is a man of rank and standing
among his own people. What, then, shall we gain by taking his life?
Let us restore him to his own people and say: `The Gaika people are not
wolves, when they make war they do not kill the prisoners. Take this
man, whom we found among us unarmed.' The English are generous as well
as brave. They will remember this act when they make terms with us.
The man himself will speak well for us. It is an act that will gain us
sympathy everywhere. Do I hear it said that Tyala is the white man's
friend? That is true, he is. But he is still more the friend of his
own people. Have we not seen enough blood? Has not blood been poured
out until the whole of the land is red with it--blood, blood,
everywhere, nothing but blood? We are weary of blood-shedding, we would
fain rest. Now, my chief, do not listen to the clamour of the young
men, or the boys. Do not allow them to shed the blood of this white
man. Restore him to his own people alive and well. We shall be glad of
it, when we have done so, and the English will treat us generously.
This is the counsel of Tyala."
The old man ceased, and drawing his blanket around him, sat silent and
motionless. Every word of his speech, illustrated by many a graceful
wave of the hand and inflection of the voice, with here and there an
expressive native ejaculation, was listened to with profound attention.
When the murmurs which greeted its conclusion had subsided, another
councillor, scarcely the junior of the first either in age or
appearance, gave his opinion. His advice, too, was in favour of mercy.
Unlike his predecessor he did not recommend the unconditional release of
the prisoner, but rather that terms should be made beforehand.
After him, no one seemed inclined to plead the prisoner's cause any
further, when, just as the opposite opinion was going to speak,
Claverton suddenly found an unexpected advocate. This was Usivulele,
the man whom he had held as a hostage, after the fight with the
Hottentot Levy, when he had allowed the Kafirs to look after their
wounded. He was not a councillor, but being a warrior of considerable
standing, and a man of great shrewdness and sagacity, he was allowed a
seat and a voice among that august body. As he had only arrived when
the prisoner had been removed, the latter had not seen him.
Beginning with the usual complimentary allusion to the wisdom of his
hearers, the speaker followed the lead of Tyala, setting forth with
considerable power the inexpediency of provoking the vengeance of the
English by pushing matters to their bitterest end. He dwelt upon the
bravery in the field of the white leader now in their hands--having
witnessed it in battle himself--upon his humanity to the wounded shown
on more than one occasion, as in giving them water with his own hand,
and saving their lives from the merciless rage of his own followers.
Such men were scarce, and if the Amaxosa rewarded them by torturing and
killing them, others of a different order would be put into their place.
Far better let this man go. Then Usivulele went on, with cunningly
veiled sneers, to cast ridicule upon the wizard Nomadudwana, whom they
all hated. These impostors, he said, were gaining more and more
ascendancy, till at last it seemed that chiefs and people were to be led
by the nose by this impudent quack, who made pretended war charms, whose
efficiency he had not the courage to test himself. He concluded with a
powerful appeal to the chiefs to spare the prisoner's life, if only to
show that they were still chiefs, and as such not to be dictated to by a
shouting mob, or influenced by the wretched jugglery of a sham
soothsayer.
But if men were to be found who had the courage of their convictions,
the majority of those who sat there were wedded to the traditions of
their order and of their race. They, indeed, regarded the wizard as a
despicable sham, but then he was necessary to such a national
institution as "smelling out," [Note 1] whereby, for purposes of gain or
policy, obnoxious individuals might from time to time be got rid of; and
the common people believed in him. It would not do to shake the popular
faith in national institutions; to do so would be to aim a blow at
authority itself, especially at such a time as this, when the Colonial
Government was strenuously exerting itself to do away with chieftainship
and tribal independence, and to substitute white magistrates everywhere.
So one after another spoke at considerable length, combating the
opinions of those who advocated mercy. It was a mistake to suppose,
they said, that the liberation of this one man would make any difference
whatever. They had reddened their spears, and must take the
consequences; it was of no use thinking to cleanse them in such simple
and easy fashion. There was no reason why this man's life should be
spared. He had proved a formidable enemy in battle, and had slain
dozens of their warriors; it was only fair, then, to hand him over to
the vengeance of the people. The people were clamouring for him, and
they ought to have him. That was the custom of the nation.
Thus spake the majority of the _amapakati_. One especially, a grim old
war-wolf, whose toothless fangs could scarcely mumble out his
bloodthirsty words, did his utmost to influence his hearers in the
direction of vengeance. The English, he said, were not to be trusted.
They would probably visit it upon them ten times more heavily for having
taken the man prisoner at all. Did the English spare the Gaikas when
they captured them? No, they handed them over to the _Amafengu_ to be
put to death by them. Free warriors of the house of Gaika to die at the
hands of Fingo dogs! Let this white man be burnt.
The last consideration told, as the ferocious old ruffian intended that
it should. The councillors were now all but unanimous against the
prisoner, and Sandili, whose sympathies, moreover, were with them,
yielded, as usual, to the voice of the majority. One or two urged Tyala
again to speak, but the old man shook his head sadly.
"No," he said, "I have advised my chief and my people all my life. They
have ever rejected my councils, and they have repented of it. They
reject them now, and they will repent of it. I will say no more," and
sinking his chin in his blanket, he sat motionless as a statue, and
heedless of what went on around him.
Meanwhile, outside the notice of the august circle a livelier scene was
being enacted.
When Claverton was ordered to be taken out of hearing, the crowd, seeing
him brought towards them, took for granted that their prey was indeed
theirs at last, and surged forward with a roar like a den of wild beasts
let loose. Their longing for blood was about to be gratified.
"Bring him to the fire!" they yelled. "Bring him to the fire?"
Some fanned up the flames; others, bending down, drew out bits of
red-hot iron and blew upon them. It was difficult for his guards, amid
that deafening roar, to persuade the mob that the time had not yet come.
They pressed forward, weighed on by those behind. They shook their
assegais towards the prisoner, they glared and mouthed upon him, they
howled and threatened, and all the while the red flames shot up with a
dull, hungry roar, and the bright caverns glowed around the instruments
of torture which lay in them. The women were among the most merciless
of that fiendish crowd. Hideous hags brandished knives and skewers,
explaining to the prisoner exactly how they meant to begin upon him, and
their repulsive wrinkled skins, all shaking and perspiring in the heat,
gave them the air of toad-like fiends from the nethermost hell. Boys
held up assegai points which had been heated in the fire, and yelled
shrilly that they were going to dig them into the white flesh. One imp,
with a diabolical leer upon his face, took a bit of hot iron and glided
between the guards, intending to apply it to the prisoner's leg.
Unfortunately for him, however, some one jostled him, and, instead of
"touching up" the captive, the iron was brought into contact with the
naked thigh of one of the guards, who, with a startled exclamation,
turned sharply round, and, seizing the youthful fiend, administered to
him such a thrashing that he slunk off, howling like a whipped dog, amid
the jeers and laughter of his fellows. And the said guards had their
work cut out for them. They dared not, on their peril, allow a finger
to be laid on their charge before the chief's "word" was given, and yet
every moment the mob nearly tore him from their possession. So they
laid about them lustily, whacking the women and children on the backs
and shoulders with their assegai shafts, and even threatening some of
the young men with the blades, and the crowd fell back a little. Then
they were able to explain that the prisoner still belonged to the chief,
and they must wait.
It was a frightful moment for Claverton; even though he knew that he was
for the time being safe, yet the position was one calculated to try the
strongest nerves. And it was but delaying the hour. He had small hopes
that the councillors would decide to spare his life. It might be that
they would elect to keep him prisoner a little longer; there was just
this chance, and it was worth next to nothing at all.
"Aha, Lenzimbi! Did I not tell you it would come to this?" mocked
Mopela, gloating over his helpless enemy. "In a few minutes I shall put
one of those red-hot irons into your eye--slowly--slowly--like this,"
and he illustrated his blood-curdling speech by taking one of the hot
nails from the fire and gently boring a hole in the ground. The crowd
had fallen back now, leaving an open space around the prisoner and his
guards.
"Ha! What is this?" he continued, as something bright was disclosed to
view through the open breast of the prisoner's shirt; and, inserting his
fingers, he drew out a chain, at the end of which hung a large and
curiously-wrought locket of steel. The chain was clasped so near to the
wearer's throat that there was no getting it off by any method short of
decapitation, it being fastened by a secret spring. In vain the savage
jerked and tugged at the loose end by which the locket hung down on
Claverton's chest. It was of strong steel, and showed no signs of
giving.
"Haow! Lenzimbi's charm!" he cried. "We must take it away, then
Lenzimbi will be weak and full of fear. This is what makes him strong.
We must take it away."
But this was easier said than done, for the chain was made of stout
metal. At last a pair of pincers was procured, and Mopela wrenched and
twisted with all the strength of his muscular grip.
"Take care what you are about!" whispered Claverton, his face livid with
deadly rage. "The man who succeeds in taking that off will die on the
spot. It is magic. Take care!"
For answer the savage only laughed, and redoubled his efforts to break
the chain. A snap--a wrench--another snap--and Mopela sprang to his
feet, triumphantly holding up the locket, with three inches of chain
dangling from his hand, and crying: "Lo! the white man's charm?"
Claverton's face was pale as death, white to the very lips, but his eyes
were glowing like coals of fire. The crowd was watching him curiously.
Already the removal of the charm had begun to take effect, they thought.
How it happened he himself could not have told to save his life, but the
locket, which seemed as close as an unbroken egg-shell as Mopela was
turning it over and over in his hands, suddenly flew open, disclosing,
to the astonished eyes of the savage, the face of Lilian Strange. Yes,
there it was, beautiful and lifelike, an exquisitely-painted miniature--
her own work. A tender smile played round the curves of the sweet
mouth, and the lovely eyes, opening wide beneath their long lashes,
looked out with a calm, glad, trustful air that was inexpressibly
bewitching. Even the warm flush beneath the delicate olive skin, and
the soft wealth of bronzed, dusky hair, was true to the very life. A
bordering of forget-me-nots, beautifully painted, was wound round the
portrait, and in the opposite compartment of the locket reposed a thick
coil of hair, matching exactly that in the miniature, and half hidden
beneath this was the letter "L," painted in blue upon a white ground.
And this token of the purest, holiest love wherewith man was ever blest,
was now held in the rude hand and gazed upon by the bold eyes of a
savage. The firelight destined to wither up the limbs of her lover
glowed upon the sweet, delicate features of Lilian, portrayed there,
lifelike in her radiant beauty; and still Mopela stood gazing into the
locket which lay in his hand, fairly lost in wondering amazement.
"Whaow!" he exclaimed. "Lenzimbi should have brought her here;" and
then his voice was jammed in his throat. He was choking. For a
marvellous thing had happened, and a shout arose from the crowd--a shout
of awe, and consternation, and warning. The prisoner was free.
A madman, we know, is at times endowed with superhuman strength.
Claverton was for the moment mad, and the stout raw-hide thongs fell
from him like packthread, as with one tiger bound, he sprang upon Mopela
and bore him to the earth. Then digging his knee into the shoulders of
the barbarian, who had fallen face downwards, he grasped him by the hair
and thrust his head into the blazing fire. It was all done in a
twinkling, and a deathly hush was upon the bystanders, who seemed
thunderstruck. He might even have escaped; but no thought had he of
anything other than vengeance. He seemed transformed into a wild beast.
His eyes started from their sockets, and he gnashed his teeth as he
literally ground the glowing cinders with the face of the prostrate man,
till the flesh crackled horribly and roasted in the heat, and even then
his fury seemed but to increase.
With a loud shout the Kafirs, recovering from their momentary stupor,
threw themselves upon him. He hardly saw them, he continued to beat his
adversary's head into the fierce fire without heeding them. They
dragged him off and secured him, but with difficulty; he was mad. Then
some of them raised Mopela. The huge barbarian presented an awful
appearance. The whole of his face was peeled and blackened--burnt to a
cinder--and the sight of both his eyes was for ever destroyed. He lay,
half insensible, and moaning like an animal.
"There!" shouted Claverton, in ringing tones. "There! That is my
vengeance. That dog lying yonder dared to profane with his filthy eyes
what was sacred. Now he will never see with those eyes again. They are
taken from him. He will be in darkness until he dies."
A vengeful murmur rose among his listeners. Suddenly some one cried:
"The charm--where is the charm?"
Where, indeed? They looked around--on the ground--in the fire--
everywhere. In vain. Of the steel locket there was no sign. It had
completely disappeared.
But the wonder and speculation of the superstitions savages was nipped
in the bud by a mandate from Sandili that the prisoner should again be
brought before him.
And now, once more, Claverton stood before that semicircle of dark,
stern countenances, but he read no hope. They were about to doom him to
torture and to death. Around pressed the crowd, eager, expectant, the
women and children jostling against the warriors in front, struggling to
obtain a view of the proceedings. Every now and then a red flash of
lightning played upon the half-naked figures of the barbarians, and upon
assegai points, and rolling eyeballs, and necklaces of jackals' white
teeth and all the savage paraphernalia wherewith the fierce, lithe forms
were decked.
A silence was upon all as the wizard stood, looking like a figure
conjured up from hell, haranguing the assembly. The burden of his
speech was a mere repetition of the wrongs they had suffered at the
hands of the white men in general, and this one in particular, whom he
now claimed on behalf of the nation, in pursuance of unvarying custom.
And at his words a shout of assent went up from the fierce crew standing
around.
"Give him to us!" they cried. "Give him to us, Great Chief!"
Then Sandili was about to speak, to utter the words of doom, when, in a
strong, ringing voice which echoed through that savage fastness like the
notes of a clarion, the prisoner cried:
"Stop! I, too, have something to say; listen to it all of you. First
of all, who is this Nomadudwana, that claims to direct your councils? I
will tell you--"
But he could get no further.
The cunning wizard was too much for him. Raising a series of terrific
howls and effectually drowning his voice, and the voices of Usivulele
and others, who would fain have allowed him a hearing, Nomadudwana made
his way among the people brandishing his "medicine charms," and crying
out that there was a plot on foot to defraud them of their prey--of
their lawful vengeance on the white captive--and stirring them up to
clamour for him to be delivered over to them. The plan was successful.
With one mighty roar every voice was raised besieging the chief with its
bloodthirsty demands. Waiting until the tumult had subsided somewhat,
Sandili raised his hand, and pointing his finger at the prisoner said,
in slow but distinct tones:
"_Do with him what you will_."
Immediately the firm grasp of many hands was upon him, and Claverton
felt that his time had now come.
"Wait!" he cried, in a ringing voice. "Wait--I have a message for the
Great Chief."
His guards paused awe-stricken. A red flash darted into their midst,
and loud rolled the thunderpeal immediately overhead. With a swift
glance upward the prisoner continued:
"Hear me now, Sandili. My magic is greater than that of your most
redoubted wizards. Who stood unseen at Nomadudwana's side in the spirit
cave in Sefele's cliff and laughed?--I did. Who was wafted safely down
yonder tremendous height and walked forth unhurt?--Ask the spirit of
Nxabahlana, and the men who saw me. This is your sentence. Your tribe
shall soon be driven from this land, which the English shall enjoy in
its place. Your sons, Matanzima and Gonya there, shall work in chains
for the English for many long years--the best years of their lives--
shall slave beneath the hot sun with common convicts, driven like oxen
by their taskmasters. And you, yourself," he went on, speaking slowly
and solemnly, as with outstretched hand he pointed at the savage
chieftain, "you, Sandili--the Great Chief of the House of Gaika--before
six moons are dead, you shall meet a dog's death at the hand of a Fingo
`dog,' and the chieftainship of the House of Gaika shall become in you a
thing of the past. This is my `word' to you, Sandili, and to all
present."
Nothing but the speaker's reputation as a wizard, who had made his magic
felt, would have obtained for him a hearing. His listeners were
obviously impressed. There was a moment of silence.
"Whaow!" suddenly exclaimed the Kafirs standing around. "Listen to the
white man! He dares to revile the Great Chief!"
The countenance of the old chief became gloomy and troubled as Claverton
finished speaking. Then again he raised his hand in fatal gesture.
"_Do with him what you will_."
What is that frightful crash as if the earth were split in twain, rent
by an indescribably terrible blow? What is that dazzling, steely glare,
all blue and plum-coloured and liquid in its blinding incandescence?
There is a smell of burning in the air, in spite of the rush of deluging
rain slanting down like waterspouts on to the earth. Chief,
councillors, captive, populace, can hardly see each other as they raise
their heads, which they have bent, appalled beneath the crashing
thunder-note of heaven. The blinding flood pours down upon them,
lashing up the ground into a very torrent of liquid mud, as again that
frightful peal shakes the earth, and the gleam of a fiery sea is in
their eyes. No other thought have they for the moment than that of
refuge from the fury of the storm. The prisoner is dragged into a hut,
and, in a moment, not a single human form is to be seen in the open,
while the terrific thunderclaps peal forth, and the lightning gleams
blue upon the rush of water now flowing several inches deep over the
soaked ashes of the fire which, but for this timely interference, would
even now be devouring Claverton's limbs.
The hideous sport of these barbarians must even be deferred till
morning, for not another stick or straw will be induced by any power on
earth to light as the deluging rain still beats down upon the earth in
unabated fury--nor can the people stand out in such weather to witness
it, and this is of the very essence of the performance.
So there in the dark, stuffy Kafir hut, securely bound, jealously
watched, and the last hope of deliverance fled, lies Arthur Claverton;
beyond all reach of his friends; cast off by her of whose love he was
more certain than of his own life; his hated rival triumphant and secure
from his just vengeance; and he only awaiting the morrow to be dragged
forth, in the prime of life, to suffer a slow and lingering death among
unheard-of tortures in order to make sport for a crowd of brutal
savages. Truly his lot is a hopeless one indeed.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Note 1. An institution similar to the good old custom of "witch
finding," among ourselves.