The hot night air brooded steamy and close upon the slumbering camp of
the slavers, but to these it mattered nothing. Ferocious Arab and
bloodthirsty negro alike were plunged in calm and peaceful slumber.
Not so the unhappy captives. To the tortures of their cramping bonds
and the bites of innumerable insects from which they were entirely
powerless to protect themselves, were added those of anticipation. With
a refinement of cruelty which was thoroughly Oriental, the slaver chief
had decreed a respite. He had caused his victims to undergo in
imagination the horrible torments he intended should be their lot on the
morrow, and, to this end, he had ordered them to be taken down from the
tree and put back as they were before, so that they might have the whole
night through to meditate upon what awaited them on the following day.
Haviland had fallen asleep through sheer exhaustion, but his slumbers
were fitful, and ever haunted by frightful visions, which would start
him wide awake and quaking: for his nerves were unstrung with the awful
ordeal he had undergone; and further, the recollection of the sickening
massacre, the heat and excitement of battle over, was one to haunt. In
his broken, unrestful sleep he was back at Saint Kirwin's, and, instead
of the Headmaster, it was Mushad, duly arrayed in academicals--which did
not seem a bit strange or out of the way in the _bizarre_ reality of his
dream--who was about to pass sentence upon him. And then appeared
Cetchy, not as he used to be, but as a big, powerful, full-grown man,
and started to punch the spurious Doctor's head, and they fought long
and hard, and he watched them in powerless and agonising apprehension,
for upon the issue of the contest depended whether he should undergo the
hideous fate in store for him or not. And then he awoke.
To the first sense of relief succeeded a quick realisation that the
actuality of their position was worse than the make-believe of any
dream. Involuntarily a groan escaped him. The savage face of one of
his guards shot up noiselessly, with a sleepily malignant grin. But
Haviland realised that it was growing almost imperceptibly lighter. The
day would soon be here.
It was the hour before dawn, and sleep lay heavy upon the slave-hunters'
camp. Even their sentinels scarcely took the trouble to keep awake.
Why should they? Did they not belong to the great Mushad, whose name
was a terror to half a continent, whose deeds a sweeping scourge? Who
would dare to assail or molest such a power as this? So, in the faint
lightening of the darkness which preceded the first dawn of day, they
slumbered on, heavily, peacefully, unsuspectingly. And then came the
awakening. The awakening of death.
The vibrant barking slogan seems to shatter the world, as the
destroyers, apparently starting up from nowhere, pour over the silent
camp, and each affrighted sleeper leaps up, only to meet the slash of
the broad shearing blade which rends his vitals, and hurls him back to
the earth, a deluging corpse. Huge figures, fell and dark, hundreds and
hundreds of them, and yet more and more, with streaming adornments and
mighty shields and short-handled, broad-bladed spears--this is what the
captives behold in that terrible hour of lightening dawn. Their former
enemies, overwhelmed by sheer weight of numbers, entirely taken by
surprise, have not even time to rise and defend themselves. They are
struck down, ripped, before they can gain their feet and lay hand upon a
weapon. And they themselves? They, too, will be butchered in the
helplessness of their bonds, but it will be a swift and sudden death.
But somehow the tide of slaughter seems to surge round them, not over
them, to pass them by. What does it mean? That in the confusion and
uncertain light they are counted already dead as they lie there, but
even in that case these savages would inevitably rip them with their
spears? Something like a glimmer of hope seems to light up the despair
at their hearts, as it occurs to them that the surprise and massacre of
their enemies may mean ultimate rescue for themselves.
Yet who and what are these savages? They are for the most part men of
splendid physique, tall and straight, and of a red-brown colour, and
their features are of the negroid type. They carry great shields akin
to the Zulu, only more oval in shape, and more massive, and the latter
is also the case with regard to their short-handled stabbing spears, and
their battle-shout is a loud, harsh, inarticulate bark, indescribably
terrible when uttered simultaneously by many throats. Here, as uttered
by over a thousand, words can hardly express the blood-curdling menace
it conveys. But, while thus pondering, the attention of these new
arrivals is turned to themselves. Ha! now their time has come. With
ready spear two of the savages bend over them. The dark faces are grim
and pitiless, and the spears descend, but not to be sheathed in their
bodies. The tense thongs, severed in more places than one, fly from
them. Their limbs are free.
They could hardly realise it. They stared stupidly upward at the ring
of faces gazing down upon them. What did it mean? Then their glance
fell upon one among that vast increasing group of towering men. If that
was not the ghost of Kumbelwa, why it was Kumbelwa himself. And then a
string of the most extravagant _sibonga_, bursting from the warrior in
question, convinced them that this was indeed so.
"In truth, _Amakosi_," he concluded, "well was it for you that Mushad
preferred to take his revenge cool, else had these been too late."
"But--who are these, Kumbelwa?" said Haviland. "Not the People of the
Spider?" gazing at them with renewed interest.
"The Ba-gcatya? No. These are the Inswani; they of whom we were
talking just lately."
"What of Mushad, Kumbelwa? Have they killed him?"
"He is unhurt. But I think the death he intended for yourselves,
_Amakosi_, is sweet sleep by the side of that which the father of this
people is keeping for him. Yonder he sits."
Rising, though with difficulty, in the cramped condition of their limbs,
the two, together with Somala, looked around for their enemy. The Arab
had accepted their rescue with the same philosophy as that wherewith he
had met his bonds. "It was written so. God is great," had been his
sole comment.
In the centre of the erewhile camp they found the man they sought. The
terrible slaver chief lay as securely bound as they themselves had so
lately been. With him, too, and equally helpless, were about three
score of his clansmen. They were the sole survivors of the massacre,
and the site of the camp was literally piled with hacked and mangled
corpses. Barbarous as had been their own treatment at the hands of this
ruthless desperado, the three Englishmen could not but shudder over the
fate in store for him and those who had been taken alive with him. To
that end alone had they been spared, for such had been the orders of the
King.
"_Ya Allah_!" exclaimed Mushad, his keen eyes seeming to burn, as he
glared up at his late captives. "Fate is strange, yet be not in a hurry
to triumph, ye dogs, for it may change again."
"We have no desire to triumph over you, Mushad," said Haviland. "That
would be the part of a coward, and I hardly think that even you would
name us that."
The Arab scowled savagely and relapsed into silence, and they left him.
When Kumbelwa asked them about the doctor they felt almost ashamed of
how the elation, attendant upon their own unexpected deliverance, had
sent their friend's memory into the background. Yet were they destined
to miss him at every hour of the day.
"He died like a brave man, Kumbelwa," had answered Haviland. "And now,
what of ourselves; and how did you escape and come so opportunely to our
aid?"
Then Kumbelwa sat down, and began to take snuff.
"We had a right good fight up there, _Nkose_, was it not so? But I knew
what would be the end of it, for did not you yourself say, `What can one
buffalo bull do against a hundred dogs?' So I cut my way through
Mushad's people and made for the open, and well I knew that none there
could outrun me, nor indeed could their bullets even strike me, so wild
were these men with excitement and victory. The while I thought that
one man outside and free was better than all within and bound, wherefore
I put much space between me and the battle so that I might think out
some plan. And then, _Nkose_, I know not how, whether it was my snake
that whispered it to me, or what it was, but I looked up--and lo! afar
off there rose a smoke. `Now,' thought I, `whoever is making that
smoke, it is no friend to Mushad. Further, it is no weak ones of the
tribes left in the path of Mushad, else had they not dared signify their
presence so soon after he had passed.' And I thought `Nothing can be
worse for those in the hand of Mushad, and it may be better. As things
are, they are already dead; but as things may be, who knoweth?' So
straight to that smoke I went, and lo! by a fire lay four times ten
men--warriors, in full array of battle. I walked into their midst
before they seized their spears and came for me. Then I said, `Who are
ye?' And they told me--I standing there and uttering the name of our
King. They had heard it, far, far as they dwelt from the land of Zulu;
but, where has not the name of Zulu sounded?
"Then I said `Ye seek Mushad? Good. I can deliver him into your
hands--lead me to the _impi_.' Then one man said--not speaking very
well in the tongue of the Zulu, `How knowest thou whom we seek, O
stranger; and how knowest thou that there be an _impi_ with us?' And I
said, `Look at me. I am not a boy. I am a _kehla_, and have I not
fought the battles of the Great Great One--he of the House of
Senzangakona?' And they said, `It is well, O stranger. Show us
Mushad.' And now, _Amakosi_, I would ask you--`Have I not done so?'"
The cordial assent of Haviland was drowned in the chorus of emphatic
applause thundered forth from those who heard, for the few who had
gathered round to listen had swelled into a mighty crowd, as, seated
there, the Zulu warrior poured forth his tale.
"And what of ourselves, Kumbelwa?" asked Haviland. "How are we to
return, for we have no bearers left, and all that is valuable to us,
though valuable to no one else, lies up yonder, where we fought?"
The Zulu's countenance seemed ever so slightly to fall.
"For that, _Nkose_, you must go with these. The Father of this people
desires to see you."
"That is so, O strangers," broke in a deep voice. Both turned. The
words had proceeded from a very tall man, taller even than Kumbelwa, who
stood forth a little from the rest. He was a magnificent savage as he
stood there, clad in his war costume, his head thrown haughtily back,
his hand resting on his great shield. But the glance wherewith he
favoured them was one of supercilious command, almost of hostility.
Both Haviland and Oakley felt an instinctive dislike and distrust for
the man as they returned his glance.
"Who is the warrior I see before me?" asked Haviland, courteously,
realising that this man was chief in command of the _impi_.
"I am Dumaliso," was the reply. "You must go with us."
And somehow both our friends realised that their troubles were by no
means over.