The kraals of the chief, Babatyana, lay sleeping. So brilliant was this
starlight, however, that the yellow domes of the thatch huts could be
distinguished from the ridge--even counted. The latter operation would
have resulted in the discovery that the collection of kraals, dotted
along the wide, bushy valley, numbered among them some three hundred
huts; but these, of course, represented only a section of the tribe over
which Babatyana was chief.
It is a strange sight that of a large, sleeping kraal--or a number of
them, in the wizard hush and calm beauty of an African night. It is so
in harmony with setting and surrounding; the starlight showing up the
ghostly loom of mountain, or suggesting the weird mystery of dark
wilderness lying beneath, where deadly things creep and lurk. And then,
these human habitations, themselves constructed of the grass which
springs up around them, of the very thorns which impede the progress of
their denizens, they stand, in primitive symmetry--not rude, because
that which is circular is nothing if not symmetrical--lying there in
their pathetic insignificance under the vast height of Heaven's vault.
And the said denizens sleeping there! Hopes and fears, virtues and
vices; capacity for intrigue, cupidity; redeeming traits, human
weaknesses--all the same, whether sleeping within the kraal of the
savage to the lullaby of the voices of prowling creatures of the night,
or in stately mansion amid the roar and rattle of the metropolis of the
world. All the same--all, all!
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The air is fresh and sweet with the fragrance of flowering shrubs, is
faintly melodious with the ghostly whistle of circling plover invisible
overhead. The cry of a jackal rings out from the hillside, receding
further and further, to be answered again from another point in the
misty gloom--then the bark of a restless dog in some slumbering kraal
beneath. Or the hoot of a night bird hawking above the silent expanse,
and the droning boom of a great beetle mingling with the shrill,
whistling voice of tree frogs. Man is silent, but Nature never.
Along the ridge overlooking Babatyana's kraals a dusty waggon road winds
like a riband, distinguishable from the darker veldt in the starlight.
It follows the apex of the ridge, and is just the place to avoid during
those dry thunder-storms which in Natal seem to hunt in couples nearly
every day during the hot months. Then the wayfarer may well leave the
highway, and dive down into one of the bushy kloofs on either side, and
wait until the turmoil passes; for the lightning will strike down upon
that high, exposed pathway, every sheeting flash not much less dangerous
than a shell from hostile artillery.
To-night, however, the elements are at peace, but man is represented by
a single unit.
Natives, as a rule, are not given to wandering about alone at night, but
this one is obviously here with a purpose. Like a statue he stands,
gazing down the road as though on the look-out for something or
somebody. He is a tall man, and ringed: and as he wraps his blanket
closer around him--for there is a tinge of chill in the night air--and
takes a few paces, it might be seen that he walks with a slight limp.
Another hour goes by, and still he stands, ever watchful, and suffering
nothing to escape him, for the patience of the savage is inexhaustible.
And now a glow suffuses the far horizon, widening and brightening; then
the broad disc of a full moon soars redly aloft, and lo, the land is
steeped in subdued unearthly light--plain, and ridge, and distant
mountain, all stand revealed; and the clusters of domed huts in the
broad valley beneath show out sharply defined. But these are no longer
silent. First a low, long-drawn wail, then another and another from
different points, culminating in still more drawn out howls, and the
dismal sounds echo through the silence in weird cadence. Half the curs
in the slumbering kraals are baying the newly risen moon.
Her light falls full upon the watcher, throwing out his tall form into
statuesque relief, and glinting on the polished shine of his head-ring.
But for the limp his gait as he slowly paces up and down would be a
stately one. Even then there is an unconscious dignity about the man,
as with head held proudly aloft, he gazes out over the moonlit expanse,
and it is the dignity of a natural ruler of men.
Suddenly he stops short in his walk, and stands, listening intently.
You or I could have heard nothing, but he can, and what he hears is the
sound of hoof-strokes.
Down the road now he takes his way, walking rapidly, and soon the
hoof-strokes draw very near indeed. Then he stops, and starts singing
to himself in a low, melodious croon.
The horseman appears in sight, advancing at a pace that is half
jog-trot, half canter. The moonlight reveals a thick-set, burly figure,
encased in a suit of clerical black. But the face which now shows
between the bow of the white "choker" and the wide-awake hat is not many
shades lighter than the whole get-up.
"_Saku bona, Mfundisi_," is the greeting of the watcher, whose singing,
purposely turned on to guard against the horse shying or stampeding at
the sudden appearance of anything living, has had that effect.
"_Yeh-bo_," answered the other. "Do I see Manamandhla, the Zulu?"
"Of the People of the Heavens am I, _Umfundisi_," was the reply, but the
tone in which the speaker enunciates the word "Umfundisi"--which means
"teacher" or "missionary"--contains a very thinly veiled sneer. "The
people down there have been awaiting you long."
"In the Cause, brother, in our holy Cause, no man's time is his own,"
answered the horseman, sanctimoniously. "_Whau_! have not I been
inoculating its sacred principles into the people at Ncapele's kraal--or
striving to, for Ncapele is old, and when a man is old enthusiasm is
dead within him. It is the young whom we have to teach. Wherefore I
could not turn my back upon him too soon."
The speaker did not think it necessary to explain that the undue time it
had taken to roast the succulent young goat which Ncapele had caused to
be slaughtered for his refection had had anything to do with the
lateness of his arrival. For that chief, although "a heathen man," was
not unmindful of the duties of hospitality. Which definition applied
equally to Manamandhla the Zulu; wherefore the attitude of that fine
savage towards the smug preacher to whom he had undertaken the office of
guide, was one of ill-concealed contempt.
"And the people--the people of Babatyana," went on the latter, "are they
ready to hear the good news--the glorious gospel of light and freedom?"
"They are ready," answered Manamandhla, who was striding beside the
other, easily keeping pace with the horse. "They are ready--ah-ah--very
ready."
"That is well--very well."
Here was an edifying picture, was it not, this zealous missionary,
labouring day and night to spread the good news among the benighted
heathen, and he one of their own colour? They, too, waiting to welcome
him, to give up their night's rest even, in order to hang upon his
words--truly a heart-stirring picture, was it not?
We shall see.
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Guided by Manamandhla by short cuts across the veldt, the traveller was
not long in reaching his destination. His arrival had been momentarily
expected, and with the first distant sounds of his horse's hoofs, the
carcase of a recently slaughtered goat had been quartered up and placed
upon a fire of glowing embers. The preacher rubbed his fat hands
together with anticipatory delight as his broad nostrils snuffed from
afar the savoury odour of the roast.
"Ah brother, the people are ever hospitable to those who bring them
tidings of the Cause," he remarked, complacently.
"And to those who do not," rejoined the Zulu.
Assuredly the emissary had no reason to complain of the substantial
nature of his reception, and so decided that worthy himself, as he sat
within the chief's hut, tearing the juicy meat from the ribs with his
teeth, and washing it down with huge draughts from the bowls of _tywala_
which had been brought in. Ah, it was good to live like this. Meat--
everywhere--plenty of it, wherever he went--meat--fresh, and succulent
and juicy, as different as day from night to the dried up, tasteless,
insipid stuff to which he sat down when in civilisation. _Tywala_ too--
newly brewed, humming, and, above all, plentiful. Yes, it was good! He
had taken off his black coat and waistcoat, mainly with the object of
preserving them from grease. Indeed had he followed his own inclination
it is far from certain that he would not have taken off everything else.
It was a disgusting spectacle, this fat, smug, black preacher, sitting
there in his shirt, his white choker all awry, tearing at the steaming
bones like a dog, his face and hands smeared with grease; a revolting
sight, immeasurably more so than that of the ring of unclothed savages
who were his entertainers and fellow feasters.
Nothing was heard but the champ of hungry jaws. Such a serious matter
as eating must not be interfered with by conversation. At last there
was very little left of the carcase of the goat but the bones, and one
by one the feasters dropped out and leaned back against the walls of the
hut.
The latter was lighted by two candles stuck in bottle necks, a device
learned from the white man. Babatyana and several others started pipes,
also an institution learned from the white man. But Manamandhla, the
conservative Zulu, confined himself to the contents of his snuff-horn.
Secretly, in his heart of hearts, he held his entertainers in some
degree of contempt, as became one of the royal race. Babatyana was an
influential chief, but only so by favour of the whites. What was he but
a Kafula [term of contempt used by Zulus for Natal natives]? But
Manamandhla was far too shrewd to impair the success of his mission by
suffering any of his secret feelings to appear.
All the same, although he lived on the wrong side of the river from the
other's point of view, there was very little admixture of baser blood in
Babatyana's system. His father had been a Zulu of pure blood and his
mother very nearly so. They had crossed into Natal as refugees, after
Nongalaza defeated Dingane, and had there remained. Seen in the dim
light of the candles, Babatyana was an elderly man, with a shrewd, lined
face; in fact there was no perceptible difference in his aspect or
bearing from that of those who affected to despise him. Now he turned
to his guest.
"The news, brother, what is it?"
"The news? _Au_! it is great. Everywhere we have our emissaries;
everywhere the people are listening. They are tired of being dogs to
the whites: tired of having to send their children away to work, so as
to find money to pay the whites. Soon our plan of deliverance will be
complete, soon when we have brought home universal brotherhood to those
of one colour--and, brothers, the time is now very near."
"And that time--when it comes--who will lead the people, _Umfundisi_?"
asked an old head-ringed man who was seated next to the chief.
"The leader will be found," was the ready answer. "It may be that he is
found--already found."
"Is he found on this side of the river or on the other?" went on the old
man, who was inclined to "heckle" the visitor.
"That, as yet, is dark. But--he is found."
A murmur went round the group. They were becoming interested. Only
Manamandhla remained perfectly impassive. He made no remarks and asked
no questions.
The conversation ran on in subdued tones, which however grew more and
more animated. The emissary was glib of tongue and knew how to hold his
audience. At last Babatyana said:
"It sounds well, Jobo. Now is the time to tell it--or some of it--to
the people outside. They wait to hear."
The Rev Job Magwegwe--by the way the name by which the chief had
addressed him was a corruption of his "Christiana" name--was an educated
Fingo, hailing from the Cape Colony, where he had been trained for a
missionary, and finally became a qualified minister in one of the more
important sects whose activity lay in that direction. But he promptly
saw that in the capacity of missionary he was going to prove a failure.
Those of his own colour openly scoffed at him. What could he teach
them, they asked? He was one of themselves, his father was So-and-So--
and no better than any of them. The whites could teach them things, but
a black man could not teach a black man anything. And so on.
But luck befriended the Rev. Job. The Ethiopian movement had just come
into being, and here he saw his chance. There was more to be made by
going about among distant races where his origin was not known, living
on the fat of the land, and preaching a visionary deliverance from
imaginary evils to those well attuned to listen, than staying at home,
striving to drill into a contemptuous audience the "tenets" of a
dry-as-dust and very defective form of Christianity. So he promptly
migrated to Natal, and being a plausible, smooth-tongued rogue soon
found himself in clover, in the official capacity of an accredited
emissary of the "Ethiopian Church," whose mission it was to instil in
the native mind the high-sounding doctrine of "Africa for its natives."