An ominous whisper sounded over the land. Far to the north, it was
said, a new and terrible disease had broken out among cattle. The herds
of Khama, the Christian chief of the Bamangwato, had, so it was said,
been swept utterly away. Like a wayward wind, it was reported, the
disease swept hither and thither, leaving nothing but bleaching
skeletons to mark its track. Even the wild game of the forest and the
plain went down before the might of the plague. When British
Bechuanaland was swept and the pestilence reached the herds of the
Basuto, it was felt that the danger was indeed at the door of every
owner of cattle in South Africa.
The Cape Government selected natives of reputed skill as cattle doctors,
and sent them up to where the rinderpest was raging, so as to give them
an opportunity of testing their remedies where the appliances of the
profoundest science had failed. Upon the return of these men to their
homes meetings of natives were called, and addresses embodying an
account of the observed ravages of the pest were made to them. Thus the
native mind became familiarised with the danger, and familiarity bred
contempt. Magistrates urged upon their people the extreme danger of
keeping all their wealth locked up in such a dangerously threatened item
as cattle, and tried to induce them to make use of the market which
existed at Johannesburg for the purpose of realising at all events a
portion of their stock; but all in vain. "The `red-water' came," they
said; "we have had war, drought, lung-sickness, and other misfortunes.
We will, no doubt, lose many cattle, but with what remains we will again
get rich. Of what use is money to us?"
Nearer and nearer came the plague; closer and closer were drawn in the
coils of that deadly chain, the links of which were flung over the
desolated earth in white heaps. The demand for meat became greater and
greater at Johannesburg, and agents were sent down by the different
butchering firms to endeavour to purchase slaughter stock. A few sheep
they managed to obtain, but no cattle.
Makalipa tried hard to persuade her husband to sell at all events some
of his "ngqoma" cattle, but not a single head would he dispose of. A
local trader persuaded him of what was partly true, namely--that his
flock of sheep, which had increased considerably during the past few
years, and of which Makalipa was joint owner, was damaging the pasturage
which he required for his cattle. It was, therefore, not difficult to
persuade Noquala to dispose of the sheep, which he did, much to
Makalipa's dissatisfaction.
The money remained in the trader's hands, Noquala fearing to bring it
home lest his wife should get hold of it. He meant to give her her
share of it, but the largest portion he intended to reinvest in cattle
as soon as the rinderpest danger should be at an end.
A few days later Noquala had occasion to visit the shop of another
trader who lived some miles away. This man had heard of the sheep
transaction and had laid his plans accordingly.
Soon after Noquala arrived a herd of cattle was driven up and shown to
him. Among this herd were several most beautiful dun-coloured cows--dun
being a colour in cattle which Noquala was particularly partial to.
After hesitating for a few minutes he asked the trader whether the
cattle were for sale or not. The trader, feigning reluctance, consented
to discuss the matter. Eventually a bargain was struck. The trader,
having ascertained how much of a balance lay to Noquala's credit at the
other shop, drew out an order for it in his own favour, to which
document Noquala affixed his mark in the presence of witnesses. Then
Noquala drove home to his kraal the dun-coloured cows which, with
several other cattle slightly inferior, although of fairly good quality,
had now become his property.
Makalipa fell into a rage when she learnt what her husband had done.
The rinderpest danger was very imminent to her, and she felt, rightly,
that her husband had been guilty of stark madness in investing money in
more cattle. She felt this the more keenly as the sheep had been
disposed of against her strongest wishes.
"And you have even spent that portion of the money which belonged to me
in buying beasts that will disappear like burning grass when the
sickness comes!" she said, almost in tears.
"Whatever is the good of money to you?" he replied. "Cows have calves,
but the money you bury in the earth brings nothing forth."
"The money I bury in the earth will not get the rinderpest. After the
sickness has swept over the land and your kraal has been emptied, my
money will still be there."
"Sickness--you are always talking about this sickness! Has not the
sickness been here before, and is not my kraal still full? What does a
woman know about things?"
"A woman knows more than you. Wait; on the day when your kraal stands
empty my kraal will be full, and I will see you making clay oxen like a
little boy, and playing with them. When your cattle all die you will go
mad, if you don't die with them."
The acquisition of the new lot brought more cattle to the kraal than the
enclosure could conveniently hold, so a number of the less valuable
animals were weeded out and given under "ngqoma" to a man in the Xalanga
district, to whom Noquala had long promised stock. This man took away
five cows and five heifers to his kraal in one of the gloomy gorges of
the Drakensberg.
The rinderpest came closer and closer. Its fell influence lay around
the territory in which Noquala lived like a crescent, or rather like the
Zulu battle-formation, which has been likened appropriately to the horns
of a charging bull. But beyond a passing feeling of uneasiness when
some traveller related what he had witnessed of the ravages of the pest,
Noquala felt no fear. Other plagues, which had been preceded by
alarming rumours, had come and gone. He, like his fellows, had
suffered, although not to the same degree. He gradually made up his
mind that he would, if the plague came, doubtless suffer again, but he
trusted to his luck and felt sure that all would come out right in the
end.
However, as the shower of rumours thickened, even Noquala began to feel
uneasy. He had been told that the disease might suddenly appear,
mysteriously and without apparent infection from outside. Once or
twice, when individuals of his herd fell sick of minor ailments, he
became distinctly alarmed. Still the rumours thickened, and his nerves
began to suffer. Nevertheless he scouted every suggestion towards
selling any of his cattle.
The younger children at the kraal were, as is usual with native
children, in the habit of making miniature cattle out of clay. This is
the sole form of plastic decorative art which the Bantu practise, with
the exception of the moulding of grotesque faces on their pottery, which
the Hlubis and the Basuto sometimes indulge in. The ox-moulding is of a
distinctly conventional type, all the artist's attention being
concentrated upon the head, horns and neck, which are often very well
executed. The legs and body are usually rough and shapeless. This form
of rudimentary art has probably been acquired from the Hottentots;
Hottentot children who have never been in contact with the Bantu mould
images of exactly the same type, and that type does not suggest the
cattle kept by the Bantu at the present day, but rather those which the
now nearly extinct Hottentots once owned in great numbers.
Noquala's mind often dwelt upon his wife's prophecy, and whenever he
noticed the clay toys he felt a twinge of guilty uneasiness. He now
knew that he had been distinctly foolish in purchasing more cattle with
the proceeds of the sheep. Nevertheless he still flatly refused to
sell.
Darker and ever darker grew the prospect. What was it, this disease
which came like a ghost from nowhere, and slew like spears in pursuit of
a beaten and exhausted foe? Lung-sickness and red-water men knew.
These thinned the herds out cruelly, sometimes, but a few were always
spared. But this unknown scourge that swept through the land as a fire
sweeps over mountain and valley in the autumn, leaving utter desolation
behind it--what could it be? Surely those who work spells of evil must
be at work, or else the "imishologu" [Spirits] must be wroth on account
of some great and grievous sin committed by the people.
'Ndakana, the "gqira," came into Noquala's mind. He had shown his power
over evil spirits, and had driven death, vanquished, from the mat upon
which his son lay. 'Ndakana professed--an unusual circumstance--to be
able to heal cattle as well as men. Noquala thought he would consult
with the "gqira" next time the latter came to the kraal. Pride, and a
feeling that he could not bear to confess that the oft-vaunted faith in
his luck had weakened, would not allow of a message being sent.
Then it was reported that the Government had found out a cure for the
disease--that by injecting some mysterious and magical medicine into the
blood of beasts they were rendered proof against the pest. All the same
the reports of whole herds dying out like drones before the doorway of a
bees' nest came over the Drakensberg from Basutoland. The mind of
Noquala swayed hither and thither between the poles of confidence and
despair.
One day 'Ndakana appeared at the kraal, where some beer had been brewed.
The beer-drink did not degenerate into an orgie, as beer-drinks
frequently do. The guests were hospitably entertained, three goats
having been slaughtered for their consumption. Towards the end of the
day the "gqira" drew Noquala into conversation.
"Have you never thought of having your cattle doctored?" he asked.
Noquala admitted that such an idea had occurred to him.
"I suppose you have heard of this new medicine that the Government
claims to have found out," continued 'Ndakana, "and of how it has
sometimes cured and sometimes failed?"
"Yes, I have heard of it."
"Well, now, I will tell you the truth about the matter. The Government
found out about herds that had been treated by our doctors, and then
they sent their own cattle doctors to administer medicine, so that they
might claim the credit."
Noquala looked incredulous. He had had some experience of the frauds of
the native doctors; when the red-water had attacked his own herd, years
previously, the "gqira" he had called in promised certain cure, but the
promise had miserably failed. Still, he had seen this man 'Ndakana
drive death away from the bedside of his son, and that after the
European doctor had confessed himself vanquished.
The sun was going down and 'Ndakana glanced keenly once or twice towards
the glowing west. He strolled a few paces forward, leading his
companion by, as it were, a conversational leash. When he stopped,
still talking, he faced the sunset and his companion had his back to it.
The "gqira's" glances, which had now become more rapid and frequent,
were still directed to the pyre of the dying day.
Suddenly he lifted his hand, and his voice became vehement.
"Noquala, man of many cattle, I know the secret and I will save your
herd from destruction if you will let me do so. Do you demand a sign to
prove my power?"
"Show me a sign," replied Noquala, looking steadfastly into the
"gqira's" eyes.
"Behold it, then."
'Ndakana took a pace forward and brushed past his companion's shoulder,
at the same time flinging his hand forward with a sweep, and holding it,
quivering and extended to its full length, in the direction of the
sunset.
Noquala turned and looked. There, rimmed with fire, floated a cloud in
the semblance of a bull stumbling forward upon one knee, in the attitude
of a buffalo that has received its death wound. As he looked the gold
faded out and the cloud broke up into formless wreaths of mist.
The portent struck Noquala to the heart; its short duration added to the
illusion, for memory enhanced the value of every detail, and his
startled imagination clothed the picture with an exactness of outline
which it had never possessed.
"Doctor my cattle," he said huskily, "and you shall have great reward."
'Ndakana told his dupe that a necessary condition towards successful
doctoring was that every beast possessed by the latter, whether under
"ngqoma" or not, had to be brought down to the kraal by a certain date,
when the state of the moon would be propitious. Noquala was now in a
condition of keen excitement, and was prepared to do whatever the
"gqira" might tell him. These two, the duper and the dupe, sat and
talked over the matter far into the night. Makalipa insisted upon being
admitted to their counsels. She, having been much impressed by the cure
which she fully believed 'Ndakana to have effected in the case of her
son, had no objection to offer, except upon one point. She thought it
ill-advised that the last lot of cattle--those given under "ngqoma" to
the man who dwelt in the Drakensberg gorge--should be brought down from
a spot so near the area in which the rinderpest was raging.
But 'Ndakana insisted on the assembling of all the cattle, without any
exception whatever, so she had to give in, although she did so with
secret misgivings. He would, of course, give no indication whatever of
the form which his doctoring was to take; that would be quite contrary
to professional etiquette, and was not to be expected for a moment.
Next morning at day-dawn Noquala mounted a horse and rode around to the
different kraals where his stock was to be found, warning the custodians
that they were to produce every hoof and horn on the fifth day
following, on pain of the "ngqoma" contract being forthwith rescinded.
Zingelagahle was sent on a tough pony to the sun-forsaken gorge where
the recipient of the last "ngqoma" dwelt, and which was rather a long
day's ride distant, with a message to a similar effect.
In the meantime the "gqira" was busy making his preparations. A few
miles away, in a shallow valley, were some extensive swamps which
harboured myriads of frogs. Of the latter he collected several
hundreds, which he imprisoned in wicker baskets. These he tightly
secured at the openings and then sunk in the swampy water.
It is customary with the natives to keep their stores of corn in large
circular excavations in the floor of the cattle enclosure. Each
excavation has a narrow neck, just large enough to admit a boy of about
twelve years of age who, when it is necessary to extract corn from the
granary, is lowered down. The narrow mouths of these pits are closed
with flat stones, and are some distance below the surface of the
enclosure. Some such contain as many as half a dozen pits, the openings
to which can only be located by probing through the thick dung-crust
until the flat stones covering them are found.
The native doctor always keeps himself acquainted with details, no
matter how apparently unimportant, regarding his neighbours--their huts,
kraals, cattle, family matters, and, in fact, everything. In the case
of rich and important men more attention is naturally bestowed. When
called in professionally the "gqira" never likes to have to ask for any
information. Divining is part of his trade, and it is thus very
effective to be able to tell the dwellers of a kraal about things which
they are firmly convinced nobody but themselves is aware of.
Now, as a matter of fact, 'Ndakana knew as much about Noquala's kraal
and everything in it as did the Germans, when they invaded France, of
the country before them. However, on the present occasion he only had
occasion to use one of the many facts with which he was acquainted. He
knew that one of the corn-pits in Noquala's kraal was empty, and he
decided to use that pit as the base of his magical operations.
Early on the third day the troop of cattle from the Drakensberg arrived.
They were in splendid condition and seemed to have improved under the
change of pasturage. The enclosure formerly used for the sheep had been
well bushed up, and was now available as a supplementary cattle
enclosure. By the evening of the fourth day the last drove of cattle
had arrived.
How Noquala feasted his eyes upon the great lowing herd! How the rival
bulls, hearing each other lowing, dashed together with a shock as of
mountain meeting mountain, whilst the mild-eyed cows looked on,
supremely indifferent as to which should prove the victor. The owner's
heart swelled with pride. All these were his--his very own, and to do
what he liked with. Surely none but the great chiefs of the past had
ever owned such a noble assemblage of cattle.
Many thoughts floated through the elated mind of Noquala on that June
evening as he strolled through the valley with his crowd of dependents
behind him at a respectful distance. He tasted the sweets of amplified
possession, and drained the cup of enjoyment to the very dregs. He
thought of how impossible it would have been for him, a common man, to
have owned so much wealth in the old days, when the chiefs reigned
supreme, and when a man who became too rich and powerful was smelt out
and tortured to death. Then he thought of how lucky it was that,
through the agency of the potent 'Ndakana, he was enabled to ensure
these creatures that he loved and took such pride in, from harm.
At dusk the cattle were driven into the two ample enclosures, which they
just comfortably filled. Some trouble was experienced in securing the
different bulls, of which there were five altogether. However, these
were eventually caught and tied up with strong thongs, and then Noquala
and his guests retired to the big hut, where a feast of goat's flesh was
laid ready.
Not so 'Ndakana. The "gqira" had more important work on hand than
feasting. When night fell he hurried to the swamp where lay the baskets
with the imprisoned frogs. These he now carried carefully in the
direction of Noquala's kraal.
After setting down the baskets in the bottom of a dried-up donga,
'Ndakana went to a spot hard by where, behind a fringe of bushes, he had
hidden away a large calabash full of water. Lifting this carefully to
his shoulder, and carrying the two baskets with one hand, he made his
way to the cattle enclosure. He did not want to be seen, but had he
been it would not have particularly mattered, for it would only have
been supposed that he was performing rites preliminary to the morrow's
doctoring. However, he managed to reach the kraal and to enter it
without being seen by any one and without alarming the cattle.
The "gqira" knew approximately the situation of the empty pit, so he had
no difficulty in finding the flat covering stone by probing with the
iron spike which he had brought with him for the purpose. Then he
carefully removed the dung and opened the pit.
After making sure that the pit was really empty, and therefore the right
one, 'Ndakana carefully poured into it the water from the calabash, and
then emptied the frogs from the respective baskets into the narrow
opening. This done, he closed the pit again and replaced the flakes of
dung over the stone. The upper layer was dry and dusty, so he had no
difficulty in obliterating the traces of his work. Besides, he knew
that the cattle would tramp restlessly about the enclosure when it
became cold towards morning, and that their feet would leave no trace of
his presence visible. Then he stole away and hid in a patch of forest
which grew at the head of the kloof in which Noquala's kraal is
situated, and about a mile distant from the huts.