WAR! RED WAR!
Telling Umslopogaas to wait, I tumbled into my clothes and went off
with him to Sir Henry’s room, where the Zulu repeated his story word
for word. It was a sight to watch Curtis’ face as he heard it.
“Great Heavens!” he said: “here have I been sleeping away while
Nyleptha was nearly murdered—and all through me, too. What a fiend that
Sorais must be! It would have served her well if Umslopogaas had cut
her down in the act.”
“Ay,” said the Zulu. “Fear not; I should have slain her ere she struck.
I was but waiting the moment.”
I said nothing, but I could not help thinking that many a thousand
doomed lives would have been saved if he had meted out to Sorais the
fate she meant for her sister. And, as the issue proved, I was right.
After he had told his tale Umslopogaas went off unconcernedly to get
his morning meal, and Sir Henry and I fell to talking.
At first he was very bitter against Good, who, he said, was no longer
to be trusted, having designedly allowed Sorais to escape by some
secret stair when it was his duty to have handed her over to justice.
Indeed, he spoke in the most unmeasured terms on the matter. I let him
run on awhile, reflecting to myself how easy we find it to be hard on
the weaknesses of others, and how tender we are to our own.
“Really, my dear fellow,” I said at length, “one would never think, to
hear you talk, that you were the man who had an interview with this
same lady yesterday, and found it rather difficult to resist her
fascinations, notwithstanding your ties to one of the loveliest and
most loving women in the world. Now suppose it was Nyleptha who had
tried to murder Sorais, and _you_ had caught her, and she had pleaded
with you, would you have been so very eager to hand her over to an open
shame, and to death by fire? Just look at the matter through Good’s
eyeglass for a minute before you denounce an old friend as a
scoundrel.”
He listened to this jobation submissively, and then frankly
acknowledged that he had spoken hardly. It is one of the best points in
Sir Henry’s character that he is always ready to admit it when he is in
the wrong.
But, though I spoke up thus for Good, I was not blind to the fact that,
however natural his behaviour might be, it was obvious that he was
being involved in a very awkward and disgraceful complication. A foul
and wicked murder had been attempted, and he had let the murderess
escape, and thereby, among other things, allowed her to gain a complete
ascendency over himself. In fact, he was in a fair way to become her
tool—and no more dreadful fate can befall a man than to become the tool
of an unscrupulous woman, or indeed of any woman. There is but one end
to it: when he is broken, or has served her purpose, he is thrown
away—turned out on the world to hunt for his lost self-respect. Whilst
I was pondering thus, and wondering what was to be done—for the whole
subject was a thorny one—I suddenly heard a great clamour in the
courtyard outside, and distinguished the voice of Umslopogaas and
Alphonse, the former cursing furiously, and the latter yelling in
terror.
Hurrying out to see what was the matter, I was met by a ludicrous
sight. The little Frenchman was running up the courtyard at an
extraordinary speed, and after him sped Umslopogaas like a great
greyhound. Just as I came out he caught him, and, lifting him right off
his legs, carried him some paces to a beautiful but very dense
flowering shrub which bore a flower not unlike the gardenia, but was
covered with short thorns. Next, despite his howls and struggles, he
with one mighty thrust plunged poor Alphonse head first into the bush,
so that nothing but the calves of his legs and heels remained in
evidence. Then, satisfied with what he had done, the Zulu folded his
arms and stood grimly contemplating the Frenchman’s kicks, and
listening to his yells, which were awful.
“What art thou doing?” I said, running up. “Wouldst thou kill the man?
Pull him out of the bush!”
With a savage grunt he obeyed, seizing the wretched Alphonse by the
ankle, and with a jerk that must have nearly dislocated it, tearing him
out of the heart of the shrub. Never did I see such a sight as he
presented, his clothes half torn off his back, and bleeding as he was
in every direction from the sharp thorns. There he lay and yelled and
rolled, and there was no getting anything out of him.
At last, however, he got up and, ensconcing himself behind me, cursed
old Umslopogaas by every saint in the calendar, vowing by the blood of
his heroic grandfather that he would poison him, and “have his
revenge”.
At last I got to the truth of the matter. It appeared that Alphonse
habitually cooked Umslopogaas’s porridge, which the latter ate for
breakfast in the corner of the courtyard, just as he would have done at
home in Zululand, from a gourd, and with a wooden spoon. Now
Umslopogaas had, like many Zulus, a great horror of fish, which he
considered a species of water-snake; so Alphonse, who was as fond of
playing tricks as a monkey, and who was also a consummate cook,
determined to make him eat some. Accordingly he grated up a quantity of
white fish very finely, and mixed it with the Zulu’s porridge, who
swallowed it nearly all down in ignorance of what he was eating. But,
unfortunately for Alphonse, he could not restrain his joy at this
sight, and came capering and peering round, till at last Umslopogaas,
who was very clever in his way, suspected something, and, after a
careful examination of the remains of his porridge, discovered “the
buffalo heifer’s trick”, and, in revenge, served him as I have said.
Indeed, the little man was fortunate not to get a broken neck for his
pains; for, as one would have thought, he might have learnt from the
episode of his display of axemanship that “le Monsieur noir” was an ill
person to play practical jokes upon.
This incident was unimportant enough in itself, but I narrate it
because it led to serious consequences. As soon as he had stanched the
bleeding from his scratches and washed himself, Alphonse went off still
cursing, to recover his temper, a process which I knew from experience
would take a very long time. When he had gone I gave Umslopogaas a
jobation and told him that I was ashamed of his behaviour.
“Ah, well, Macumazahn,” he said, “you must be gentle with me, for here
is not my place. I am weary of it, weary to death of eating and
drinking, of sleeping and giving in marriage. I love not this soft life
in stone houses that takes the heart out of a man, and turns his
strength to water and his flesh to fat. I love not the white robes and
the delicate women, the blowing of trumpets and the flying of hawks.
When we fought the Masai at the kraal yonder, ah, then life was worth
the living, but here is never a blow struck in anger, and I begin to
think I shall go the way of my fathers and lift Inkosi-kaas no more,”
and he held up the axe and gazed at it in sorrow.
“Ah,” I said, “that is thy complaint, is it? Thou hast the
blood-sickness, hast thou? And the Woodpecker wants a tree. And at thy
age, too. Shame on thee! Umslopogaas.”
“Ay, Macumazahn, mine is a red trade, yet is it better and more honest
than some. Better is it to slay a man in fair fight than to suck out
his heart’s blood in buying and selling and usury after your white
fashion. Many a man have I slain, yet is there never a one that I
should fear to look in the face again, ay, many are there who once were
friends, and whom I should be right glad to snuff with. But there!
there! thou hast thy ways, and I mine: each to his own people and his
own place. The high-veldt ox will die in the fat bush country, and so
is it with me, Macumazahn. I am rough, I know it, and when my blood is
warm I know not what to do, but yet wilt thou be sorry when the night
swallows me and I am utterly lost in blackness, for in thy heart thou
lovest me, my father, Macumazahn the fox, though I be nought but a
broken-down Zulu war-dog—a chief for whom there is no room in his own
kraal, an outcast and a wanderer in strange places: ay, I love thee,
Macumazahn, for we have grown grey together, and there is that between
us that cannot be seen, and yet is too strong for breaking;” and he
took his snuff-box, which was made of an old brass cartridge, from the
slit in his ear where he always carried it, and handed it to me for me
to help myself.
I took the pinch of snuff with some emotion. It was quite true, I was
much attached to the bloodthirsty old ruffian. I do not know what was
the charm of his character, but it had a charm; perhaps it was its
fierce honesty and directness; perhaps one admired his almost
superhuman skill and strength, or it may have been simply that he was
so absolutely unique. Frankly, with all my experience of savages, I
never knew a man quite like him, he was so wise and yet such a child
with it all; and though it seems laughable to say so, like the hero of
the Yankee parody, he “had a tender heart”. Anyway, I was very fond of
him, though I should never have thought of telling him so.
“Ay, old wolf,” I said, “thine is a strange love. Thou wouldst split me
to the chin if I stood in thy path tomorrow.”
“Thou speakest truth, Macumazahn, that would I if it came in the way of
duty, but I should love thee all the same when the blow had gone fairly
home. Is there any chance of some fighting here, Macumazahn?” he went
on in an insinuating voice. “Methought that what I saw last night did
show that the two great Queens were vexed one with another. Else had
the ‘Lady of the Night’ not brought that dagger with her.”
I agreed with him that it showed that more or less pique and irritation
existed between the ladies, and told him how things stood, and that
they were quarrelling over Incubu.
“Ah, is it so?” he exclaimed, springing up in delight; “then will there
be war as surely as the rivers rise in the rains—war to the end. Women
love the last blow as well as the last word, and when they fight for
love they are pitiless as a wounded buffalo. See thou, Macumazahn, a
woman will swim through blood to her desire, and think nought of it.
With these eyes have I seen it once, and twice also. Ah, Macumazahn, we
shall see this fine place of houses burning yet, and hear the battle
cries come ringing up the street. After all, I have not wandered for
nothing. Can this folk fight, think ye?”
Just then Sir Henry joined us, and Good arrived, too, from another
direction, looking very pale and hollow-eyed. The moment Umslopogaas
saw the latter he stopped his bloodthirsty talk and greeted him.
“Ah, Bougwan,” he cried, “greeting to thee, Inkoos! Thou art surely
weary. Didst thou hunt too much yesterday?” Then, without waiting for
an answer, he went on—
“Listen, Bougwan, and I will tell thee a story; it is about a woman,
therefore wilt thou hear it, is it not so?
“There was a man and he had a brother, and there was a woman who loved
the man’s brother and was beloved of the man. But the man’s brother had
a favourite wife and loved not the woman, and he made a mock of her.
Then the woman, being very cunning and fierce-hearted for revenge, took
counsel with herself and said to the man, ‘I love thee, and if thou
wilt make war upon thy brother I will marry thee.’ And he knew it was a
lie, yet because of his great love of the woman, who was very fair, did
he listen to her words and made war. And when many people had been
killed his brother sent to him, saying, ‘Why slayest thou me? What hurt
have I done unto thee? From my youth up have I not loved thee? When
thou wast little did I not nurture thee, and have we not gone down to
war together and divided the cattle, girl by girl, ox by ox, and cow by
cow? Why slayest thou me, my brother, son of my own mother?’
“Then the man’s heart was heavy, and he knew that his path was evil,
and he put aside the tempting of the woman and ceased to make war on
his brother, and lived at peace in the same kraal with him. And after a
time the woman came to him and said, ‘I have lost the past, I will be
thy wife.’ And in his heart he knew that it was a lie and that she
thought the evil thing, yet because of his love did he take her to
wife.
“And the very night that they were wed, when the man was plunged into a
deep sleep, did the woman arise and take his axe from his hand and
creep into the hut of his brother and slay him in his rest. Then did
she slink back like a gorged lioness and place the thong of the red axe
back upon his wrist and go her ways.
“And at the dawning the people came shouting, ‘Lousta is slain in the
night,’ and they came unto the hut of the man, and there he lay asleep
and by him was the red axe. Then did they remember the war and say,
‘Lo! he hath of a surety slain his brother,’ and they would have taken
and killed him, but he rose and fled swiftly, and as he fleeted by he
slew the woman.
“But death could not wipe out the evil she had done, and on him rested
the weight of all her sin. Therefore is he an outcast and his name a
scorn among his own people; for on him, and him only, resteth the
burden of her who betrayed. And, therefore, does he wander afar,
without a kraal and without an ox or a wife, and therefore will he die
afar like a stricken buck and his name be accursed from generation to
generation, in that the people say that he slew his brother, Lousta, by
treachery in the night-time.”
The old Zulu paused, and I saw that he was deeply agitated by his own
story. Presently he lifted his head, which he had bowed to his breast,
and went on:
“I was the man, Bougwan. Ou! _I_ was that man, and now hark thou! Even
as I am so wilt thou be—a tool, a plaything, an ox of burden to carry
the evil deeds of another. Listen! When thou didst creep after the
‘Lady of the Night’ _I_ was hard upon thy track. When she struck thee
with the knife in the sleeping place of the White Queen _I_ was there
also; when thou didst let her slip away like a snake in the stones _I_
saw thee, and I knew that she had bewitched thee and that a true man
had abandoned the truth, and he who aforetime loved a straight path had
taken a crooked way. Forgive me, my father, if my words are sharp, but
out of a full heart are they spoken. See her no more, so shalt thou go
down with honour to the grave. Else because of the beauty of a woman
that weareth as a garment of fur shalt thou be even as I am, and
perchance with more cause. I have said.”
Throughout this long and eloquent address Good had been perfectly
silent, but when the tale began to shape itself so aptly to his own
case, he coloured up, and when he learnt that what had passed between
him and Sorais had been overseen he was evidently much distressed. And
now, when at last he spoke, it was in a tone of humility quite foreign
to him.
“I must say,” he said, with a bitter little laugh, “that I scarcely
thought that I should live to be taught my duty by a Zulu; but it just
shows what we can come to. I wonder if you fellows can understand how
humiliated I feel, and the bitterest part of it is that I deserve it
all. Of course I should have handed Sorais over to the guard, but I
could not, and that is a fact. I let her go and I promised to say
nothing, more is the shame to me. She told me that if I would side with
her she would marry me and make me king of this country, but thank
goodness I did find the heart to say that even to marry her I could not
desert my friends. And now you can do what you like, I deserve it all.
All I have to say is that I hope that you may never love a woman with
all your heart and then be so sorely tempted of her,” and he turned to
go.
“Look here, old fellow,” said Sir Henry, “just stop a minute. I have a
little tale to tell you too.” And he went on to narrate what had taken
place on the previous day between Sorais and himself.
This was a finishing stroke to poor Good. It is not pleasant to any man
to learn that he has been made a tool of, but when the circumstances
are as peculiarly atrocious as in the present case, it is about as
bitter a pill as anybody can be called on to swallow.
“Do you know,” he said, “I think that between you, you fellows have
about worked a cure,” and he turned and walked away, and I for one felt
very sorry for him. Ah, if the moths would always carefully avoid the
candle, how few burnt wings there would be!
That day was a Court day, when the Queens sat in the great hall and
received petitions, discussed laws, money grants, and so forth, and
thither we adjourned shortly afterwards. On our way we were joined by
Good, who was looking exceedingly depressed.
When we got into the hall Nyleptha was already on her throne and
proceeding with business as usual, surrounded by councillors,
courtiers, lawyers, priests, and an unusually strong guard. It was,
however, easy to see from the air of excitement and expectation on the
faces of everybody present that nobody was paying much attention to
ordinary affairs, the fact being that the knowledge that civil war was
imminent had now got abroad. We saluted Nyleptha and took our
accustomed places, and for a little while things went on as usual, when
suddenly the trumpets began to call outside the palace, and from the
great crowd that was gathered there in anticipation of some unusual
event there rose a roar of “_Sorais! Sorais!_”
Then came the roll of many chariot wheels, and presently the great
curtains at the end of the hall were drawn wide and through them
entered the “Lady of the Night” herself. Nor did she come alone.
Preceding her was Agon, the High Priest, arrayed in his most gorgeous
vestments, and on either side were other priests. The reason for their
presence was obvious—coming with them it would have been sacrilege to
attempt to detain her. Behind her were a number of the great lords, and
behind them a small body of picked guards. A glance at Sorais herself
was enough to show that her mission was of no peaceful kind, for in
place of her gold embroidered “kaf” she wore a shining tunic formed of
golden scales, and on her head a little golden helmet. In her hand,
too, she bore a toy spear, beautifully made and fashioned of solid
silver. Up the hall she came, looking like a lioness in her conscious
pride and beauty, and as she came the spectators fell back bowing and
made a path for her. By the sacred stone she halted, and laying her
hand on it, she cried out with a loud voice to Nyleptha on the throne,
“Hail, oh Queen!”
“All hail, my royal sister!” answered Nyleptha. “Draw thou near. Fear
not, I give thee safe conduct.”
Sorais answered with a haughty look, and swept on up the hall till she
stood right before the thrones.
“A boon, oh Queen!” she cried again.
“Speak on, my sister; what is there that I can give thee who hath half
our kingdom?”
“Thou canst tell me a true word—me and the people of Zu-Vendis. Art
thou, or art thou not, about to take this foreign wolf,” and she
pointed to Sir Henry with her toy spear, “to be a husband to thee, and
share thy bed and throne?”
Curtis winced at this, and turning towards Sorais, said to her in a low
voice, “Methinks that yesterday thou hadst other names than wolf to
call me by, oh Queen!” and I saw her bite her lips as, like a danger
flag, the blood flamed red upon her face. As for Nyleptha, who is
nothing if not original, she, seeing that the thing was out, and that
there was nothing further to be gained by concealment, answered the
question in a novel and effectual manner, inspired thereto, as I firmly
believe, by coquetry and a desire to triumph over her rival.
Up she rose and, descending from the throne, swept in all the glory of
her royal grace on to where her lover stood. There she stopped and
untwined the golden snake that was wound around her arm. Then she bade
him kneel, and he dropped on one knee on the marble before her, and
next, taking the golden snake with both her hands, she bent the pure
soft metal round his neck, and when it was fast, deliberately kissed
him on the brow and called him her “dear lord”.
“Thou seest,” she said, when the excited murmur of the spectators had
died away, addressing her sister as Sir Henry rose to his feet, “I have
put my collar round the ‘wolf’s’ neck, and behold! he shall be my
watchdog, and that is my answer to thee, Queen Sorais, my sister, and
to those with thee. Fear not,” she went on, smiling sweetly on her
lover, and pointing to the golden snake she had twined round his
massive throat, “if my yoke be heavy, yet is it of pure gold, and it
shall not gall thee.”
Then, turning to the audience, she continued in a clear proud tone,
“Ay, Lady of the Night, Lords, Priests, and People here gathered
together, by this sign do I take the foreigner to husband, even here in
the face of you all. What, am I a Queen, and yet not free to choose the
man whom I will love? Then should I be lower than the meanest girl in
all my provinces. Nay, he hath won my heart, and with it goes my hand,
and throne, and all I have—ay, had he been a beggar instead of a great
lord fairer and stronger than any here, and having more wisdom and
knowledge of strange things, I had given him all, how much more so
being what he is!” And she took his hand and gazed proudly on him, and
holding it, stood there boldly facing the people. And such was her
sweetness and the power and dignity of her person, and so beautiful she
looked standing hand in hand there at her lover’s side, so sure of him
and of herself, and so ready to risk all things and endure all things
for him, that most of those who saw the sight, which I am sure no one
of them will ever forget, caught the fire from her eyes and the happy
colour from her blushing face, and cheered her like wild things. It was
a bold stroke for her to make, and it appealed to the imagination; but
human nature in Zu-Vendis, as elsewhere, loves that which is bold and
not afraid to break a rule, and is moreover peculiarly susceptible to
appeals to its poetical side.
And so the people cheered till the roof rang; but Sorais of the Night
stood there with downcast eyes, for she could not bear to see her
sister’s triumph, which robbed her of the man whom she had hoped to
win, and in the awfulness of her jealous anger she trembled and turned
white like an aspen in the wind. I think I have said somewhere of her
that she reminded me of the sea on a calm day, having the same aspect
of sleeping power about her. Well, it was all awake now, and like the
face of the furious ocean it awed and yet fascinated me. A really
handsome woman in a royal rage is always a beautiful sight, but such
beauty and such a rage I never saw combined before, and I can only say
that the effect produced was well worthy of the two.
She lifted her white face, the teeth set, and there were purple rings
beneath her glowing eyes. Thrice she tried to speak and thrice she
failed, but at last her voice came. Raising her silver spear, she shook
it, and the light gleamed from it and from the golden scales of her
cuirass.
“And thinkest thou, Nyleptha,” she said in notes which pealed through
the great hall like a clarion, “thinkest thou that I, Sorais, a Queen
of the Zu-Vendi, will brook that this base outlander shall sit upon my
father’s throne and rear up half-breeds to fill the place of the great
House of the Stairway? Never! never! while there is life in my bosom
and a man to follow me and a spear to strike with. Who is on my side?
Who?
“Now hand thou over this foreign wolf and those who came hither to prey
with him to the doom of fire, for have they not committed the deadly
sin against the sun? or, Nyleptha, I give thee War—red War! Ay, I say
to thee that the path of thy passion shall be marked out by the blazing
of thy towns and watered with the blood of those who cleave to thee. On
thy head rest the burden of the deed, and in thy ears ring the groans
of the dying and the cries of the widows and those who are left
fatherless for ever and for ever.
“I tell thee I will tear thee, Nyleptha, the White Queen, from thy
throne, and that thou shalt be hurled—ay, hurled even from the topmost
stair of the great way to the foot thereof, in that thou hast covered
the name of the House of him who built it with black shame. And I tell
ye strangers—all save Bougwan, whom because thou didst do me a service
I will save alive if thou wilt leave these men and follow me” (here
poor Good shook his head vigorously and ejaculated “Can’t be done” in
English)—“that I will wrap you in sheets of gold and hang you yet alive
in chains from the four golden trumpets of the four angels that fly
east and west and north and south from the giddiest pinnacles of the
Temple, so that ye may be a token and a warning to the land. And as for
thee, Incubu, thou shalt die in yet another fashion that I will not
tell thee now.”
She ceased, panting for breath, for her passion shook her like a storm,
and a murmur, partly of horror and partly of admiration, ran through
the hall. Then Nyleptha answered calmly and with dignity:
“Ill would it become my place and dignity, oh sister, so to speak as
thou hast spoken and so to threat as thou hast threatened. Yet if thou
wilt make war, then will I strive to bear up against thee, for if my
hand seem soft, yet shalt thou find it of iron when it grips thine
armies by the throat. Sorais, I fear thee not. I weep for that which
thou wilt bring upon our people and on thyself, but for myself I say—I
fear thee not. Yet thou, who but yesterday didst strive to win my lover
and my lord from me, whom today thou dost call a ‘foreign wolf’, to be
_thy_ lover and _thy_ lord” (here there was an immense sensation in the
hall), “thou who but last night, as I have learnt but since thou didst
enter here, didst creep like a snake into my sleeping-place—ay, even by
a secret way, and wouldst have foully murdered me, thy sister, as I lay
asleep—”
“It is false, it is false!” rang out Agon’s and a score of other
voices.
“It is _not_ false,” said I, producing the broken point of the dagger
and holding it up. “Where is the haft from which this flew, oh Sorais?”
“It is not false,” cried Good, determined at last to act like a loyal
man. “I took the Lady of the Night by the White Queen’s bed, and on my
breast the dagger broke.”
“Who is on my side?” cried Sorais, shaking her silver spear, for she
saw that public sympathy was turning against her. “What, Bougwan, thou
comest not?” she said, addressing Good, who was standing close to her,
in a low, concentrated voice. “Thou pale-souled fool, for a reward thou
shalt eat out thy heart with love of me and not be satisfied, and thou
mightest have been my husband and a king! At least I hold _thee_ in
chains that cannot be broken.
“_War! war! war!_” she cried. “Here, with my hand upon the sacred stone
that shall endure, so runs the prophecy, till the Zu-Vendi set their
necks beneath an alien yoke, I declare war to the end. Who follows
Sorais of the Night to victory and honour?”
Instantly the whole concourse began to break up in indescribable
confusion. Many present hastened to throw in their lot with the “Lady
of the Night”, but some came from her following to us. Amongst the
former was an under officer of Nyleptha’s own guard, who suddenly
turned and made a run for the doorway through which Sorais’ people were
already passing. Umslopogaas, who was present and had taken the whole
scene in, seeing with admirable presence of mind that if this soldier
got away others would follow his example, seized the man, who drew his
sword and struck at him. Thereon the Zulu sprang back with a wild
shout, and, avoiding the sword cuts, began to peck at his foe with his
terrible axe, till in a few seconds the man’s fate overtook him and he
fell with a clash heavily and quite dead upon the marble floor.
This was the first blood spilt in the war.
“Shut the gates,” I shouted, thinking that we might perhaps catch
Sorais so, and not being troubled with the idea of committing
sacrilege. But the order came too late, her guards were already passing
through them, and in another minute the streets echoed with the furious
galloping of horses and the rolling of her chariots.
So, drawing half the people after her, Sorais was soon passing like a
whirlwind through the Frowning City on her road to her headquarters at
M’Arstuna, a fortress situated a hundred and thirty miles to the north
of Milosis.
And after that the city was alive with the endless tramp of regiments
and preparations for the gathering war, and old Umslopogaas once more
began to sit in the sunshine and go through a show of sharpening
Inkosi-kaas’s razor edge.