BAMBATSE

Nearly four months had gone by when at length the waggon with which

were Mr. Clifford, Benita, and Jacob Meyer camped one night within the

country of the Molimo of Bambatse, whose name was Mambo. Or perhaps

that was his title, since (according to Tamas his son) every chief in

succession was called Mambo, though not all of them were Molimos, or

representatives and prophets of God, or the Great Spirit whom they knew

as Munwali. Thus sometimes the Molimo, or priest of Munwali, and the

Mambo or chief were different persons. For instance, he said that he,

Tamas, would be Mambo on his father’s death, but no visions were given

to him; therefore as yet, at any rate, he was not called to be Molimo.

In the course of this long journey they had met with many adventures,

such as were common to African travellers before the days of railroads;

adventures with wild beasts and native tribes, adventures with swollen

rivers also, and one that was worst, with thirst, since for three days

(owing to the failure of a pit or pan, where they expected to find

water) they were obliged to go without drink. Still, none of these

were very serious, nor had any of the three of them ever been in better

health than they were at this moment, for by good luck they had escaped

all fever. Indeed, their rough, wild life had agreed with Benita

extraordinarily well, so well that any who had known her in the streets

of London would scarcely have recognized her as the sunburnt, active and

well-formed young woman who sat that night by the camp fire.

All the horses they had brought with them had been sold, except some

which had died, and three that were “salted,” or proof against the

deadly horse sickness, which they took on with them. Their own servants

also had been sent back to Rooi Krantz in charge of a Scotch cart laden

with ivory, purchased from Boer hunters who had brought it down from the

north of the Transvaal. Therefore, for this was part of the bargain, the

three Makalanga were now their only attendants who drove and herded the

cattle, while Benita cooked the food which the two white men shot, or

sometimes bought from natives.

For days they had been passing through a country that was practically

deserted, and now, having crossed a high nek, the same on which Robert

Seymour had left his waggon, they were camped in low land which, as they

could see by the remains of walls that appeared everywhere, had once

been extensively enclosed and cultivated. To their right was a rising

mountainous ground, beyond which, said the Makalanga, ran the Zambesi,

and in front of them, not more than ten miles away, a great isolated

hill, none other than that place that they had journeyed so far to

reach, Bambatse, round which flowed the great river. Indeed, thither one

of the three Makalanga, he who was named Hoba, had gone on to announce

their approach.

They had outspanned amongst ruins, most of them circular in shape, and

Benita, studying them in the bright moonlight, guessed that once these

had been houses. That place now so solitary, hundreds or thousands of

years ago was undoubtedly the home of a great population. Thousands,

rather than hundreds, she thought, since close at hand in the middle

of one of these round houses, grew a mighty baobab tree, that could not

have seen less than ten or fifteen centuries since the seed whence it

sprang pierced the cement floor which was still visible about its giant

bole.

Tamas, the Molimo’s son, saw her studying these evidences of antiquity,

and, approaching, saluted her.

“Lady,” he said in his own language, which by now she spoke very well,

“lady”--and he waved his hand with a fine gesture--“behold the city of

my people.”

“How do you know that it was their city?” she asked.

“I do not know, lady. Stones cannot speak, the spirits are silent, and

we have forgotten. Still, I think so, and our fathers have told us that

but six or eight generations ago many folk lived here, though it was not

they who built these walls. Even fifty years ago there were many, but

now the Matabele have killed them, and we are few; to-morrow you will

see how few. Come here and look,” and he led her through the entrance

of a square cattle kraal which stood close by. Within were tufts of

rank grass, and a few bushes, and among these scores of skulls and other

bones.

“The Matabele killed these in the time of Moselikatse,” he said. “Now

do you wonder that we who remain fear the Matabele, and desire guns to

defend ourselves from them, even if we must sell our secrets, in order

to buy those guns, who have no money to pay for them?”

“No,” she answered, looking at the tall, dignified man, into whose soul

the irons of fear and slavery had burnt so deep. “No, I do not wonder.”

Next morning at daybreak they trekked on, always through these evidences

of dead, forgotten people. They had not more than ten miles to cover to

reach their long journey’s end, but the road, if so it could be called,

ran up-hill, and the oxen, whereof only fourteen were now left to drag

the heavy-laden waggon, were thin and footsore, so that their progress

was very slow. Indeed, it was past midday when at length they began to

enter what by apology might be called the town of Bambatse.

“When we go away from this, it will have to be by water, I think, unless

we can buy trek-cattle,” said Meyer, looking at the labouring oxen with

a doubtful eye.

“Why?” asked Mr. Clifford anxiously.

“Because several of those beasts have been bitten by tetsefly, like my

horse, and the poison is beginning to work. I thought so last night, but

now I am sure. Look at their eyes. It was down in that bit of bush veld

eight days ago. I said that we ought not to camp there.”

At this moment they came to the crest of the ridge, and on its further

side saw the wonderful ruins of Bambatse close at hand. In front of

them stood a hill jutting out, as it were into the broad waters of the

Zambesi river, which, to a great extent, protected it upon three sides.

The fourth, that opposite to them, except at one place where a kind of

natural causeway led into the town, was also defended by Nature, since

here for more than fifty feet in height the granite rock of the base of

the hill rose sheer and unclimbable. On the mount itself, that in all

may have covered eight or ten acres of ground, and surrounded by a deep

donga or ditch, were three rings of fortifications, set one above the

other, mighty walls which, it was evident, had been built by no modern

hand. Looking at them Benita could well understand how it came about

that the poor fugitive Portuguese had chosen this as their last place of

refuge, and were overcome at length, not by the thousands of savages who

followed and surrounded them, but by hunger. Indeed, the place seemed

impregnable to any force that was not armed with siege guns.

On the hither side of this natural fosse, which, doubtless, in ancient

times had been filled with water led from the Zambesi, stood the village

of the Bambatse Makalanga, a collection of seventy or eighty wretched

huts, round, like those of their forefathers, but built of mud and

thatch. About them lay the gardens, or square fields, that were well

cultivated, and at this season rich with ripening corn. Benita, however,

could see no cattle, and concluded, therefore, that these must be kept

on the hill for safety, and within its walls.

Down the rough road they lumbered, and through the village, where the

few women and children stared at them in a frightened way. Then they

came to the causeway, which, on its further side, was blocked with

thorns and rough stones taken from the ruins. While they waited for

these to be removed by some men who now appeared, Benita looked at the

massive, circular wall still thirty or forty feet in height, by perhaps

twenty through its base, built of granite blocks without mortar,

and ornamented with quaint patterns of other coloured stones. In

its thickness she could see grooves, where evidently had once been

portcullises, but these had disappeared long ago.

“It is a wonderful place,” she said to her father. “I am glad that I

came. Have you been all over it?”

“No; only between the first and second walls, and once between the

second and third. The old temple, or whatever it is, is on the top,

and into that they would never admit us. It is there that the treasure

lies.”

“That the treasure is supposed to lie,” she answered with a smile. “But,

Father, what guarantee have you that they will do so now? Perhaps they

will take the guns and show us the door--or rather the gate.”

“Your daughter is right, there is none; and before a box is taken off

the waggon we must get one,” said Meyer. “Oh! I know it is risky, and it

would have been better to make sure first, but it is too late to talk of

that now. Look, the stones are cleared. Trek on--trek!”

The long waggon-whip cracked, the poor, tired-out oxen strained at the

yokes, and on they went through the entrance of that fateful fortress

that was but just wide enough to admit them. Inside lay a great open

space, which, as they could see from the numerous ruins, had once been

filled with buildings that now were half hidden by grass, trees, and

creepers. This was the outer ring of the temple where, in ancient

days, the priests and captains had their home. Travelling across it for

perhaps a hundred and fifty yards, they came near the second wall, which

was like the first, only not quite so solid, and saw that on a stretch

of beaten ground, and seated in the shadow, for the day was hot, the

people of Bambatse were gathered to greet them.

When within fifty yards they dismounted from the horses, which were

left with the waggon in the charge of the Makalanga, Tamala. Then Benita

taking her position between her father and Jacob Meyer, they

advanced towards the ring of natives, of whom there may have been two

hundred--all of them adult men.

As they came, except one figure who remained seated with his back

against the wall, the human circle stood up as a token of respect, and

Benita saw that they were of the same stamp as the messengers--tall and

good-looking, with melancholy eyes and a cowed expression, wearing the

appearance of people who from day to day live in dread of slavery and

death. Opposite to them was a break in the circle, through which Tamas

led them, and as they crossed it Benita felt that all those people

were staring at her with their sad eyes. A few paces from where the

man crouched against the wall, his head hidden by a beautifully worked

blanket that was thrown over it, were placed three well-carved stools.

Upon these, at a motion from Tamas, they sat themselves down, and, as it

was not dignified for them to speak first, remained silent.

“Be patient and forgive,” said Tamas at length. “My father, Mambo, prays

to the Munwali and the spirits of his fathers that this coming of yours

may be fortunate, and that a vision of those things that are to be may

descend upon him.”

Benita, feeling nearly two hundred pairs of eyes concentrated upon her,

wished that the vision might come quickly, but after a minute or

two fell into tune with the thing, and almost enjoyed this strange

experience. Those mighty ancient walls built by hands unknown, which

had seen so much history and so much death; the silent, triple ring

of patient, solemn men, the last descendants of a cultured race, the

crouching figure hidden beneath the blanket, who imagined himself to be

communicating with his god--it was all very strange, very well worth the

seeing to one who had wearied of the monotony of civilization.

Look, the man stirred, and threw back his blanket, revealing a head

white with age, a spiritual, ascetic face, so thin that every bone

showed in it, and dark eyes which stared upwards unseeingly, like those

of a person in a trance. Thrice he sighed, while his tribesmen watched

him. Then he let his eyes fall upon the three white people seated

in front of him. First he looked at Mr. Clifford, and his face grew

troubled; then at Jacob Meyer, and it was anxious and alarmed. Lastly,

he stared at Benita, and while he did so the dark eyes became calm and

happy.

“White maiden,” he said in a soft, low voice, “for you, at least, I have

good tidings. Though Death come near to you, though you see him on your

right hand and your left, and in front of you and behind you, I say,

fear not. Here you, who have known deep sorrow, shall find happiness and

rest, O maiden, with whom goes the spirit of one pure and fair as you,

who died so long ago.”

Then, while Benita wondered at his words, spoken with such sweet

earnestness that although she believed nothing of them, they brought

a kind of comfort to her, he looked once more at her father and Jacob

Meyer, and, as it were with an effort, was silent.

“Have you no pleasant prophecy for me, old friend,” said Jacob, “who

have come so far to hear it?”

At once the aged face grew inscrutable, all expression vanished behind a

hundred wrinkles, and he answered:

“None, white man--none that I am charged to deliver. Search the skies

for yourself, you who are so wise, and read them if you can. Lords,” he

went on in another voice, “I greet you in the name and presence of my

children. Son Tamas, I greet you also; you have done your mission well.

Listen, now--you are weary and would rest and eat; still, bear with me,

for I have a word to say. Look around you. You see all my tribe, not

twenty times ten above the age of boys, we who once were countless as

the leaves on yonder trees in spring. Why are we dead? Because of the

Amandabele, those fierce dogs whom, two generations ago, Moselikatse,

the general of Chaka, brought up to the south of us, who ravish us and

kill us year by year.

“We are not warlike, we who have outlived war and the lust of slaying.

We are men of peace, who desire to cultivate the land, and to follow our

arts which have descended to us from our ancestors, and to worship

the Heavens above us, whither we depart to join the spirits of our

forefathers. But they are fierce and strong and savage, and they come

up and murder our children and old people, and take away the young women

and the maidens to be slaves, and with them all our cattle. Where are

our cattle? Lobengula, chief of the Amandabele, has them; scarce a cow

is left to give milk to the sick or to the motherless babe. And yet he

sends for cattle. Tribute, say his messengers, deliver tribute, or my

impi will come and take it with your lives. But we have no cattle--all

are gone. We have nothing left to us but this ancient mountain and the

works built thereon, and a little corn on which we live. Yes, I say

it--I, the Molimo--I whose ancestors were great kings--I who have still

more wisdom in me than all the hosts of the Amandabele,” and as he spoke

the old man’s grey head sank upon his breast and the tears ran down his

withered cheeks, while his people answered:

“Mambo, it is true.”

“Now listen again,” he went on. “Lobengula threatens us, therefore I

sent to these white men who were here before, saying that if they would

bring me a hundred guns, and powder and ball, to enable us to beat off

the Amandabele from behind these strong walls of ours, I would take them

into the secret holy place where for six generations no white man has

set a foot, and there suffer them to search for the treasure which is

hid therein, no man knows where, that treasure which they asked leave to

find four winters gone. We refused it then and drove them hence, because

of the curse laid upon us by the white maid who died, the last of the

Portuguese, who foretold her people’s fate for us if we gave up the

buried gold save to one appointed. My children, the Spirit of Bambatse

has visited me; I have seen her and others have seen her, and in my

sleep she said to me: ‘Suffer the men to come and search, for with them

is one of the blood to whom my people’s wealth is given; and great is

your danger, for many spears draw nigh.’ My children, I sent my son and

other messengers on a far journey to where I knew the men dwelt, and

they have returned after many months bringing those men with them,

bringing with them also another of whom I knew nothing--yes, her who is

appointed, her of whom the Spirit spoke.”

Then he lifted his withered hand and held it towards Benita, saying: “I

tell you that yonder she sits for whom the generations have waited.”

“It is so,” answered the Makalanga. “It is the White Lady come again to

take her own.”

“Friends,” asked the Molimo, while they wondered at his strange speech,

“tell me, have you brought the guns?”

“Surely,” answered Mr. Clifford, “they are there in the waggon, every

one of them, the best that can be made, and with them ten thousand

cartridges, bought at a great cost. We have fulfilled our share of the

bargain; now will you fulfil yours, or shall we go away again with the

guns and leave you to meet the Matabele with your assegais?”

“Say you the agreement while we listen,” answered the Molimo.

“Good,” said Mr. Clifford. “It is this: That you shall find us food and

shelter while we are with you. That you shall lead us into the secret

place at the head of the hill, where the Portuguese died, and the gold

is hidden. That you shall allow us to search for that gold when and

where we will. That if we discover the gold, or anything else of value

to us, you shall suffer us to take it away, and assist us upon our

journey, either by giving us boats and manning them to travel down the

Zambesi, or in whatever fashion may be most easy. That you shall permit

none to hurt, molest, or annoy us during our sojourn among you. Is that

our contract?”

“Not quite all of it,” said the Molimo. “There is this to add: first

that you shall teach us how to use the guns; secondly, that you shall

search for and find the treasure, if so it is appointed, without our

help, since in this matter it is not lawful for us to meddle; thirdly,

that if the Amandabele should chance to attack us while you are here,

you shall do your best to assist us against their power.”

“Do you, then, expect attack?” asked Meyer suspiciously.

“White man, we always expect attack. Is it a bargain?”

“Yes,” answered Mr. Clifford and Jacob Meyer in one voice, the latter

adding: “the guns and the cartridges are yours. Lead us now to the

hidden place. We have fulfilled our part; we trust to the honour of you

and all your people to fulfil yours.”

“White Maiden,” asked the Molimo, addressing Benita, “do you also say

that it is a bargain?”

“What my father says, I say.”

“Good,” said the Molimo. “Then, in the presence of my people, and in the

name of the Munwali, I, Mambo, who am his prophet, declare that it is so

agreed between us, and may the vengeance of the heavens fall upon those

who break our pact! Let the oxen of the white men be outspanned, their

horses fed, their waggon unloaded, that we may count the guns. Let food

be brought into the guest-house also, and after they have eaten, I, who

alone of all of you have ever entered it, will lead them to the holy

place, that there they may begin to search for that which the white

men desire from age to age--to find it if they can; if not, to depart

satisfied and at peace.”