Zavula sat in his hut smoking, and--blinking.
Zavula was an old man. There were wisps of white beneath and above the
dull, uncared for head-ring, for being a Natal native he did not keep
his head scrupulously shaved, as the way of the ringed Zulu is. But his
eyesight was very weak, wherefore he sat--and blinked. And he was
alone.
A small fire burned in the bowl-like hollow in the centre of the hut.
Into this Zavula was gazing. Perhaps he was dreaming dreams of the
past--when he had been somebody, when he was looked up to and respected
by thousands of tribesmen; when, too, he had gallantly led in person
these same tribesmen, at the call of the white man's Government, against
the hosts of Cetywayo the Great King, on the red plain of Isandhlwana--
only to retire, in helter-skelter rout, together with such of the whites
who had it in their power to do likewise, before the on-sweeping wave of
the might of Zulu. Then, in those days, his word was law. He had been
called upon to assist the Government, and he and his fighting men had
done so loyally. It was not their fault if the white leader had been
out-generalled by Tyingwayo, who had learned the art of war under Tshaka
the Terrible. They had done their best, and had been thanked for it and
remembered, when Cetywayo's power had melted into air, and the horns of
that Bull, which had gored where they would, had been blunted and
rendered harmless for ever.
And now here were his people engaged in running their heads against a
rock. _Whau_! was ever such foolishness known? His people! He had no
sons living. The two he had--both were slain in the waters of Umzinyati
while striving to escape from the pursuing spears of the Great King--
after Isandhlwana. His people, to whom his word had been law, had now
turned to Babatyana. He himself was a chief no more.
Babatyana was his brother's son, and Babatyana was not old. Since the
teaching of the white people had found footing in the land, and, worse
still, since the teaching of certain black people from a far off country
beyond the salt water, had come among them the old were no longer
respected, no longer listened to. He, Zavula, was old, but Babatyana
was not; wherefore the people turned to listen to the words of
Babatyana. And Babatyana was plotting against the whites--against the
Government. _Whau_! was ever such foolishness known?
What did Babatyana, and the fools who were listening to him, think they
would gain--think they would do? The whites, who overthrew for ever the
House of Senzangakona and the might of Zulu at the very zenith of its
power and glory--were they to be overthrown in their turn by a few
unorganised tribes all unskilled and unpractised in the art of war? The
whites, who could bring guns to bear, each of which could fire a hundred
bullets in every direction while a man could count scarce half that
number--why Baba-tyana and his fools might as well run their heads hard
against the nearest cliff and strive to beat that down as attempt such a
thing as this. _Whau_! was ever such foolishness known?
They reckoned on help from the Amazulu? Well, what then? Even if they
got it, where were the Amazulu now? They were no longer a nation. The
power of the House of Senzangakona was gone for ever; and even if the
splendid army of the last of those Elephants were here to fight on their
side--what then? Even more now--ten times more--were the whites able to
disperse such, like smoke; for their weapons were ten times better than
any they had possessed at the time of the breaking up of the great
House.
_Whau_! was ever such foolishness known!
And for what were the people plotting, these fools? Because they had to
pay a little more in taxes than formerly, to pay for their own
protection? Their own protection, for how would it have been with them
had the Amabuna [Boer] come out best in the late struggle? The rule of
the Amangisi [English], when the very worst had been said against it,
was mild and merciful compared with what that of the Amabuna would be,
were these masters of the land. Under this every man could enjoy his
own and be free. And he was free, no man freer. But--under that?
Again. Even if these strange preachers who had come among them with
this poison under their tongues spoke truly; that the tribes were to
combine and drive out the white man--whether Amabuna or Amangisi--what
then? Somebody must be chief. There was no such thing as all men, all
tribes and nations, being equal. The very idea was foolishness. Who
then would be chief. Who then would be king? There was still a son of
the House of Senzangakona alive. And the thinker, for his part,
preferred the rule of the white man to that of the House of
Senzangakona.
All of the above he had put before his people, and that not once only.
But they had turned a deaf ear, or had listened but coldly. The spirit
of unrest coursed high through their blood. The strange preachers were
promising them a great and glorious future--and Babatyana had turned
towards them a favourable ear. Zavula was old, they said among
themselves; Babatyana was in his prime. He knew. He could walk with
the times. The time had come for Zavula to go to sleep. Which sense
may have accounted for the fact that Zavula now sat in his hut alone.
So the old chief sat there, gazing blinkingly into his dying fire,
wondering why he should not be allowed to lay down his old bones in
peace, instead of being hustled by a great crowd of idiots bent on
seeking their own death. Had either or both of his two sons been alive
how different things would have turned. He had taught them sound
commonsense, at any rate, and would have been willing that the
leadership of the tribe should devolve upon them. But Babatyana?
_Whau_, Babatyana!
Now he was roused from his musings by a sound outside. It was the voice
of someone singing--calling to him the tribal _sibongo_, or praise. The
door of the hut was pushed open and a youth crept in, saying that a
stranger craved leave to speak with the chief.
Zavula, though old, and shorn of much of his tribal dignity, had plenty
of the latter left--of a personal character. He did not hurry, and
after a space of full five minutes he intimated that the stranger might
come in.
A man crept in through the low doorway, and raising his right hand gave
the chief _sibongo_. The latter acknowledged it with a murmur, then for
a moment there was silence. The new arrival was a middle-aged ringed
man, and though he had described himself as a stranger this was only as
a term of humility. As a matter of fact he was one of Zavula's most
influential headmen.
"I see you, Nxala," said the chief. "And now? What is the news?"
There was ever so faint a twinkle in the speaker's eyes as he asked the
question, ever so ironical a _soupcon_ in his tone.
"My father, things are moving. The news is great, but not to be cried
aloud. The people are nearly ready."
"M-m! Nearly ready? Ready--for what?"
"The people are crying aloud for their father, the Chief of the
Amahluzi, but he takes no part in their councils. His voice is not
heard."
"The Chief of the Amahluzi takes no part in the councils of fools,"
returned the old man in tones of cold irony, looking through the other.
"Of fools?"
"Of fools--and worse. When children listen no more to the counsel of
their fathers then are those children undone."
Again there was silence. Then Zavula raised his voice in a hail. In
response two women appeared, and having received an order, returned in a
minute or two bearing a large bowl of _tywala_ and two smaller drinking
vessels. Into these they poured some of the liquor, which creamed up
with a pleasant frothing sound. Then, each having taken the preliminary
sip, required by native etiquette, they withdrew.
The headman took a long pull at his beer, and then another. The
firelight glowed upon the placid countenance and short white beard of
the old chief and upon the shine of the new arrival's head-ring, and
still there was silence. At last the latter spoke.
"The people are tired of the white man's exactions, my father. They
have to pay more and more, and they are tired of it. They wish to hear
the voice of their chief."
"They have heard that voice already, Nxala--not only once nor only
twice. They have heard it as foolish, rebellious children. They will
hear it no more. But the time is very near when they will wish, through
blood and through tears, that they had listened to it."
An unpleasant look flitted across the crafty face of the headman.
"But they murmur, my father," he said. "They are saying--`Lo, our
father, Zavula, is old, and he is asleep. But Babatyana is not old, and
he is awake.' So say the people."
"_Whau_, Babatyana!"
The infinite contempt in the old man's tone was quiet and cutting. The
evil look deepened in the face of the other. To hide it he took up his
drinking vessel again, and drained it. His host at once refilled it
from the large bowl, and also his own.
"Has the Chief of the Amahluzi no word for Babatyana?" went on Nxala.
"_Whau_, Babatyana!"
This time the contempt in the old man's tone was more cutting than
before. The other appreciated it to the full.
"And to the people, father? The people, thy children?"
"The people? Fools--all fools. But to them I have one word--one last
word. Let them come here with the rising of to-morrow's sun and hear
it. Fools--because only a fool wants the same word uttered into his ear
again and again."
If it be wondered that during this talk nothing definite was said--no
plan propounded--it must be remembered that the colloquial process known
as coming straight to the point is an attribute vested in the civilised
man. To the savage it is utterly foreign, even abhorrent. These two
knew perfectly well what was in each other's mind. There was no
occasion to formulate anything. In matters of moment safety lay that
way, a tradition fostered through countless generations. Now
Babatyana's emissary knew that his mission had failed. Babatyana's
chief--the chief of the Amahluzi tribe--was as firm as a rock. Suddenly
Nxala's countenance lit up.
"_Whau_! The spear! The great spear!" he exclaimed. "That is the
spear with which my father met the might of Cetywayo, and slew two
warriors. I would fain gaze upon that spear once more."
Zavula turned his head, following the speaker's glance. Behind him hung
a fine assegai, of the broad-bladed, short-handled Zulu type, which he
had wielded with effect at Isandhlwana as leader of the Native
Contingent, before he was forced to fly before the weight of numbers.
But as he turned his head the hand of Nxala shot out by a quick
movement; perhaps two inches, and no more. But Zavula, though old, was
not the fool that the other--and, incidentally, the bulk of his people--
chose to take him for.
"Ha! The spear?" he answered, in the genial, pleased tones of a veteran
invited to enlarge once more on bygone deeds. "It was great, this
_umkonto_, was it not? And now it must be kept bright or it will rust;
for there is no more use for it."
He rose, and turning his back full upon his guest, stood, deliberately
taking down the weapon from where it hung behind him. For half a minute
he thus stood, gazing lovingly upon it as he held it in his hand. But
in a fraction of that half minute the hand of Nxala again shot out till
it rested above the chief's drinking vessel, and as quickly withdrew.
The latter sat down again leisurely, the assegai in his hand.
"Yes. It is a great spear," he went on meditatively, but carefully
refraining from handing it to the other. "And there is no more use for
it. But--we will drink to its memory."
He raised the bowl before him. The other watching him, could hardly
suppress the gleam of satisfaction which flitted across his face. But
it faded in an instant. The bowl dropped from the chief's hand on to
his knees. The liquor gushed forth on to the floor.
"The bowl, my father," cried Nxala eagerly. "Break it into pieces--in
small pieces--for it is bad _muti_ to drop it at the moment of
drinking."
"It is worse _muti_, sometimes, to drink the moment before dropping it,"
answered the old man, tranquilly, setting the bowl beside him. "I will
have another brought." And again he raised his voice in a hail. Again
the women appeared, and having supplied another bowl, and also a fresh
brew of _tywala_, withdrew.
Nxala, watching, could scarcely restrain himself. The first part of his
diabolical scheme had miscarried. Was it time for the second act? And
there before him sat the old chief, the fine assegai in his hand--yet
held in a firm grip, he did not fail to notice--crooning words of
_sibongo_ to it, as he recalled its deeds in past times. Had the scheme
succeeded all would have gone so easy. This kraal of Zavula's was an
insignificant cluster of a dozen huts, whither the old chief loved to
retire. He was old--what more natural than that he should die in
retirement? Yes--it was time for the second act. He would give the
signal.
"Have you heard, my father; the new song that the people have made?" he
said. "The new war-song? Listen. This is how it runs."
But before he had uttered three words of it a trampling of hoofs was
heard outside the hut, and a lusty European voice--though speaking
faultless Zulu--enquiring which was the hut of the chief. Following on
the answer there came through the low door of the hut a man, a white
man--and he was known to both as the magistrate's clerk from Kwabulazi.
"Greeting to you, father," he cried, falling into the native idiom, and
shaking Zavula heartily by the hand.
"Greeting, my son," answered the old chief genially. "Sit. Here is
_tywala_. Have you ridden far?"
"Far? Have I not? And I am come to sleep at your kraal, for Kwabulazi
is another stage away, and it is night, and my horse is dead lame."
Nxala, taking in the situation, was beside himself with inward rage,
which, in fact, had got nearly to that pitch where the Machiavellian
caution of the savage is apt to forget, and lose itself in an outburst
of uncontrolled, unthinking blood lust. But he had not overlooked the
fact that the new arrival had, slung around him, a remarkably
business-like revolver. No, the time was not yet.
A dozen armed savages, lying in wait in the dark bush shadows a little
way beyond Zavula's kraal, had sprung up at the first words of the new
war-song, which was to be the signal, but subsided again at the sound of
the approaching horse-hoofs. Now, after a muttered consultation, they
withdrew to a distance to await their leader's reappearance and
instructions. But there was an armed white man, and he an official,
sleeping at Zavula's kraal, which made all the difference.
Twice that night the life of the chief of the Amahluzi had hung on a
hair. It was saved--for the present.