"A LIFE FOR A LIFE."
When a man knows that the first light of dawn will see him led forth to
a lingering death by torture, he is not likely to pass a very tranquil
night, be he never so courageous or philosophical. Claverton
exemplified both of these attributes to the full; yet as he lay there,
thinking upon his position, even his fearless spirit sank within him.
To begin with, there was not the shadow of a chance of escape. He was
firmly secured with strong and well-tried _reims_--a detail to which his
captors, warned by the Mopela episode, had given their extra attention--
and two stalwart Kafirs, fully armed, mounted guard over him by relays,
one lying across the door of the hut. Not a muscle could he move, not
ever so slightly could he shift his wearisome position, but their eyes
were upon him, as they sat chatting in their deep bass tones; but
carefully avoiding any subject likely to interest their charge.
And he? He looked upon himself as dead already. His guards started and
gazed at him watchfully, handling their weapons, as he ground his teeth
audibly in the fury begotten of his reflections. Their task was not a
congenial one, for in their superstitions souls, hatred of a powerful
enemy was strongly dashed with a touch of secret awe. They had
witnessed what hid befallen Mopela, then the terrific storm breaking
over them all at the very moment when they were about to sacrifice the
prisoner, and now they were by no means easy in their minds, shut up at
such close quarters with such a formidable foe, even though he was
bound, and helpless as a log. The rain swept down in sheets outside,
and the wind howled in furious gusts; within sat the prisoner and his
savage sentinels, the latter huddled in their blankets and talking
drowsily.
Yes. At last Claverton felt that he must yield to Fate. Fortune had
befriended him for long, but now it had forsaken him. Many a trifling
incident, little thought of at the time, now seemed fraught with direful
omen. Lilian's forebodings of ill, followed by the reappearance of the
hated rival; the unusually devoted leave-taking of his faithful
follower; but what weighed him down most was the loss of the steel
locket--the "charm," to which scarcely less than the savages he attached
a superstitious importance--as symbolising the constant protecting
presence of his adored love with him in all danger. And now even this
amulet had been taken from him, simultaneously with the love--the
guiding star of his life--which it symbolised; well might the incident
presage his doom, for life was of no further value to him.
Then an intense craving came over his soul once more to behold the
tenderly-loved face, to hear the soothing tones of that voice; and with
the grave yawning to receive him, Claverton would have bartered his
salvation a dozen times over for one momentary glance of her who
represented his all--his world--his Heaven--his God. And ever upon the
thatch beat the monotonous fall of the rain, and in the dead silent
night floated a weird cry from the lonely bush, answered by the
occasional yelp of a half-starved cur prowling among the silent huts--
and the prisoner slept. Slept, but rested not, for his mind was wide
awake. Now he was talking with Lilian, as of old at Seringa Vale, when
all their future was wrapped in apprehensive uncertainty. Now he sat
with her in the garden at Fountains Gap, and the birds sang around, and
overhead the sky was one fair expanse of unclouded blue, even as the
golden dawn of perfect and uninterrupted love opening its flowery
pathway before them. Now it was that sweet sad parting in the grey,
chill morning--and lo, he stood within a lonely valley, and his pistol
was pointing at the heart of a man who stood before him--a man with an
awful expression of rage, and terror, and despair upon his features--and
the face was that of Ralph Truscott. Ah, so real! Then he awoke. It
was morning, and his time had come. Other voices were mingled with
those of his guards, and a chill blast of air came in at the open door
of the hut, which was what had aroused him. But it was far from
morning, for outside all was still dark and silent, save for the
ceaseless patter of the rain.
"Good; we will go," the sentinels were saying in response to one of the
new arrivals. "We are tired of sitting here in the dark, watching this
white wizard; but it will soon be day, and then we shall get some rare
fun out of him," and with a grunt of farewell the two Kafirs, huddling
their blankets about them, crawled through the diminutive door and made
off in search of more congenial quarters.
For some time after the sound of their retreating footsteps had ceased,
the relief guards kept almost complete silence. The prisoner could hear
them settling themselves down with a word or two of remark, and every
now and then the rattle of their assegais on the ground beside them, but
the circumstance mattered nothing to him. His guards had been changed--
that was all. But after a while one of the said worthies, opening a
little of the wicker-work door, bent his ear to the aperture, and
appeared to be listening intently. Then he softly closed it and
whispered:
"Lenzimbi!"
In spite of himself, Claverton could not restrain a start. He did not
recognise the voice, but the whole action had been suspicions to a
degree. Surely he was dreaming.
"Whaow!" exclaimed one of the Kafirs in a brutal tone. "This is poor
work. Let's amuse ourselves a little with the cursed white dog!" and
the speaker struck a match and proceeded to light his pipe, and, with a
start of amazement, Claverton recognised the rugged, massive features of
Xuvani, the ex-cattle-herd of Seringa Vale.
Hardly able to believe his eyes, he stared again and again; but there
the old man was, his face distinctly visible as he pressed down the
tobacco with his middle finger, blowing out great clouds of smoke from
his thick, bearded lips. The discovery, however, brought Claverton no
hope. Yielding to the combination of circumstances, he had long pitched
that article overboard, as he told himself, and watched it sink, and now
the sooner the whole ship went after it the better. And then, like
lightning, there flashed upon his recollection the words: "_The future
is uncertain, and we never know what turn events may take, and that if
ever at any time he or Tambusa can render you a service they will do so,
even should it be at the risk of their lives--a life for a life_." How
well he remembered Hicks translating the old cattle-herd's speech--that
day long ago in the sunny garden at Seringa Vale--and how little
importance he had attached to the Kafir's professions of gratitude! He
had not believed in them then, nor did he now in the gloomy night of his
abandonment and downfall. Gratitude! No. The word was not in the
Kafir vocabulary, he thought, in bitter scorn, as again the brutal,
mocking tones of the old savage fell upon his ear.
But along with them--covered by them, as it were--came that whisper
again.
"It may be that Lenzimbi will watch the sun arise from among the tents
of his people."
"Who speaks?" whispered Claverton, quickly.
"A friend. Tambusa."
"Ah!"
For a moment he could not speak--could scarcely think. His nerves had
been terribly strained within the last forty-eight hours; and now the
rush of blood to his head, the sudden overpowering revulsion of hope,
succeeding the black, outer gloom of despair, would have been dangerous
to the very reason of one less philosophically endowed. Life--liberty--
revenge, and after that--love! He dared not think of it. Yet it was
within his grasp once more. These two were about to redeem their
promise. They would save him yet.
He had not seen them before, for the simple reason that they had only
arrived at the kraal after he had been thrown into the hut; and then by
the merest chance. And now, like the bright warming sunshine let into a
cold dungeon which had never known daylight, came that friendly whisper
through the darkness.
"I am ready," he replied. "Just slip off these bits of _reimpje_,
Tambusa; and give me an assegai and a stick or something, and start me
outside, and then if ever these devils get hold of me again, why,
they're welcome to."
"Not yet, 'Nkos, not yet," whispered the young Kafir. "Too soon, too
soon; there are still some of them awake. Leave it to us."
What a lifetime now was every moment to the prisoner! Each rain-drop
seemed to fall with a crash like thunder; every sound was to his fevered
impatience as the beat of footsteps coming to rend from him for ever
this one last chance. The old man still sat by the door, occasionally
growling out curses upon the dog of a white wizard, and wishing it was
morning that they might begin their horrid work; but this the captive
knew now to be only a blind. Hours--weeks--years--seemed to roll by in
that terrible suspense; in reality it was scarcely more than half an
hour.
At length some one touched him in the darkness, and this time it was
Xuvani who spoke.
"Don't rise, Lenzimbi. Make the blood circulate, but do it quietly.
Don't move from your place until I tell you," and, dexterously feeling
his way, the old man, in a couple of slashes, cut through the prisoner's
bonds.
"Ah, that's better," whispered Claverton, stretching his limbs, which
had been terribly cramped, so securely had they bound him. "But I say,
Xuvani, there's a poor devil of a preacher shut up here somewhere.
Couldn't we bring him out, too?"
"Do I owe the _Umfundisi_ anything?" was the cold reply. "Lenzimbi
shall go free, but I would not stir an arm to save a townfull of these
black-coated preachers. If this white man is a real prophet, his God
will save him; if not, the Gaikas may do what they please with him--I
care not."
Now, I am aware that by all the laws of romance Claverton should have
absolutely refused to accept his own deliverance rather than desert a
countryman, whoever he might be. But, even at the risk of his
irretrievably losing the reader's good opinion, the fact must be
recorded that not only did no such wild idea enter his head for a
moment, but that he there and then dismissed all thought of his
companion in adversity from his mind. What was this cowardly,
egotistical, "shoppy" preacher to him? He had never seen him before
they had picked him up in the bush, and certainly had no great wish ever
to see him again. If it had been Hicks or Armitage, or any of his old
comrades, even Allen, the case would have been vastly different; but to
sacrifice himself, Lilian, everything, for such as this--no, not he.
"Xuvani," he suddenly exclaimed. "Where is the `charm' that was taken
from me to-day? I cannot leave that behind."
"Whaow! It is lost," replied the old Kafir, a little impatiently.
"Stand up, now, and roll yourself in that blanket, for it is time to
start."
But Claverton did not move. A queer freak had taken possession of him.
He might never see Lilian again; he was not going to leave her image
here among the savages--that image which he had worn upon his heart
throughout so many perils and trials. It was of no use accepting life.
No wonder his would-be deliverer stood and muttered impatiently that he
must be mad. Here was a man with a frightful death by torture awaiting
him in a few hours, and who, instead of availing himself of the
proffered deliverance without loss of time, refused to move because he
had lost a trinket. The experience of the savage had never held
anything so curious as this.
"We are losing time, we are losing time," he muttered. "Are you so very
tired of life, Lenzimbi?"
"Yes--almost," and he made no sign of moving. "Ah!--"
Something had suddenly been thrust into his hand. He grasped it. It
was the steel locket.
"Now I am ready," he exclaimed, springing up. "Luck is ours again; my
star has risen," and, pressing the trinket to his lips, he put it away
in its usual place next his heart.
"Ha! Lenzimbi is sane again," remarked the old Kafir. "Now roll that
blanket well round your neck and head, and keep your chin sunk into it
or the hair will betray you. Don't speak--not one word--but keep close
behind me, without so much as looking up. We shall pass for two of the
Gaikas going on a scouting expedition."
With what a feeling of relief did Claverton draw in deep breaths of the
cool night air, so grateful after the stuffy, ill-smelling atmosphere of
the hut! What a thrill ran through him as he grasped the pair of heavy
ironwood sticks which were put into his hand, and felt himself once more
a free man and to a certain extent armed! It was past midnight, and
still raining steadily, but the night was not a dark one, owing to the
moon, which was completely veiled by the thick, unbroken curtain of
cloud--indeed, not dark enough, as both of them thought, with a quick
glance upward. The huts stood around, half seen through the dim light,
and Claverton could make out a black patch on the ground where had been
the fire, and the place where the chiefs and councillors had sat in
judgment upon him. A cur, half aroused, began to bark as they made
their way through the silent kraal, bringing Claverton's heart into his
mouth as he strode along, close behind his guide. He had rolled the
blanket well round his shoulders, and his head was adorned with an old
battered felt hat, the brim being drawn down over his ears; and now
imitating the long, elastic stride of the natives, and also their way of
carrying their kerries, he would very well pass in the darkness for one
of them, all muffled up as he was after the manner of a Kafir obliged to
travel on a cold or wet night.
Soon the huts were left behind and they had gained the lonely bush. So
dark was it beneath the overshadowing trees that Claverton could hardly
keep up with his guide as they threaded the wet, slippery path, plunging
deeper and deeper into the gloom; but not for worlds would he diminish
the pace, every swift step bringing him nearer to liberty and all that
it involved. Branches flying back swept his face, drenching him in an
icy shower, _wacht-am-bietje_ thorns seized his garments and tore his
flesh, but not for a moment would he delay. On, on--ever on--on,
through that wet, dank, jungly wilderness, whose lonely terrors were to
this escaped captive as the fairest of surroundings. Once a great owl
dropped down in their faces, gliding along on noiseless wing uttering
its unearthly hoot. Strange, mysterious rustlings in the brake on
either side, and the patter of feet, betrayed that the beasts of the
forest were abroad; the weird, cat-like cry of a panther echoed from a
gloomy pile of towering rocks overhanging their path, and, afar, the
ravening howl of the great striped hyaena blended in dismal cadence with
the chorus of nocturnal voices, which from time to time startled the
deathly stillness of those wilds, meet abode of savage creatures, and
men even yet more savage. And the rain fell with its ceaseless drip,
drip, drip.
"Why, where is Tambusa?" suddenly exclaimed Claverton, looking behind.
"I thought he was with us."
"Silence!"
He obeyed, and subsided once more into his own thoughts. At length it
began to lighten perceptibly. They had travelled for nearly four hours
now, and travelled with marvellous directness, almost every inch of the
ground being known to the experienced Kafir. Wooded heights, deep
defiles, frowning krantzes, were all passed with a rapidity which
astonished even Claverton, who would hardly have believed it possible to
make such way on foot. Suddenly, and without turning his head, his
guide breathed one single word, drowning it immediately in a slight
cough.
"Caution."
Not by word or look did Claverton betray that he had heard; but his
grasp tightened round the handles of his kerries, and lo, starting out
of the gloom so suddenly and so noiselessly that they might have started
out of air, five Kafirs, fully armed, stood in the path before them.
A hurried conversation took place, Claverton every now and then putting
in a grunt of assent with the rest, in true native fashion. Xuvani did
all the talking.
"We are carrying the `word' of the Great Chief," he said, making a step
forward. "We must not delay."
"What is the matter with your relation?" asked one of the five, Xuvani
having thus categorised his charge for the time being.
"He has been shot through the cheeks, and the cold must be kept from the
wound," was the reply. By nature an intensely suspicious animal, the
Kafir was peering distrustfully at Claverton, whose bronzed complexion,
however, aided by the shade of the ragged hat, looked as dark as their
own in the incipient dawn. But the very presence of Xuvani, whose
valour and fidelity had been abundantly proved, disarmed further
suspicion, and, without another word, the strangers disappeared as
quickly as they had come, and the pair resumed their way.
"Do you think they will have discovered the joke, Xuvani?" asked
Claverton at length, referring to his escape.
"The rain is good; it will have washed out our tracks," replied the
other. "It is unfortunate that we should have met with those men just
now."
"Did they suspect?"