thus free for the rest of the afternoon, so he left the office and
walked up towards his official residence. He had asked the Chief
Constable to see to the fitting up of his room, and he now went to look
over the premises. For a long time he was unable to dismiss the face of
the prisoner Erlank from his memory, it seemed to be almost as familiar
to him as the houses of the street along which he was walking.
The village had hardly changed since he had last seen it. It is one of
those places that do not grow because they happen not to be on any one
of the great highways to the North. One or two old fogeys came up and
greeted Kellson in the street--men he had known well in the old days,
now so changed as to be almost unrecognisable. He passed the little
room which had been used in the old days as a public library and
reading-room. It was now shut up, and almost in ruins. He thought of
how he used to run over from the office and flirt with the librarian, a
very pretty girl, long since married. He passed another house and
caught his breath short. It was that in which she had lived--the girl
he had loved in his youth, and who had loved him. He had left her in a
state of uncertainty as to his intentions, and after keeping up a warm
correspondence for some time, they had gradually become estranged, the
estrangement commencing on his side. Why had he acted like this, he
asked himself bitterly. He had dreaded something or another, he could
not quite define what it was. He remembered how she, who had been as
Steel to others, was like wax in his hands. He remembered----Ah, God
what a lot he remembered.
He arrived at the residency after walking up the hill. The exercise
made him puff. In the old days he used to run up steeper gradients, now
it sometimes distressed him to walk on level ground.
The gate and the fence were new, but the verandah, the door and the
windows, as in the case of the hotel, were the same he had known in the
old days. He opened the door and walked in, his footsteps sounding
hollow in the empty house.
Kellson stood in the passage. He had left the front door wide open so
as to admit the light. The air of the empty house seemed dense with the
essence of the past. He went into every room, pausing for a few seconds
in each, and then entering the next on tip-toe. He stood in the
dining-room, before the fireplace. He had sat where he now stood on so many
evenings of winter days whose suns had set with his youth. The barren
hearth was full of ghostly flames which struck a chill into his heart.
There was the room opening to the left, which Mabel and Vi, the little
twin daughters of his former chief, used to occupy. He seemed to hear
the laughter of the children echoing from some far-off paradise of the
past, before the portal of which a stern-browed Fate stood to prevent
his entering. The shutters of the dining-room window had been thrown
open. A memory-ghost prompted him to unfold one of them. On its inner
surface, painted over, he found the heads of the tacks with which he
had nailed the programme of the farewell dance given in honour of his
promotion by his chief. Where were the dancers? Gone like the music to
which their feet had kept time.
His bed had been placed in the room formerly occupied by the children.
This pleased him; the ghosts of Mabel and Vi were more bearable than
the other ghosts. He looked in to see that all he required had been
provided, and then he walked over the premises outside, old
recollections smiting him like whips at every turn. He went into the
stable and touched the ring to which "Bob," an old pony, the joint
property of the two little girls, used to be tied. The tennis-ground
was over-grown with grass--his predecessor's family evidently had not
cared about tennis. He recognised most of the trees in the garden. The
old vine at the side of the house was green and full of unripe grapes.
It was the only thing that had a cheerful look.
Kellson returned to the hotel, and found that several of the
inhabitants of the village had called and left cards. After supper, he
walked up again to the residency, and found the Chief Constable there,
he having come to see whether the arrangements made were satisfactory.
Kellson was much relieved to find he had company. He had dreaded
entering the house alone in the dark. There was an old rustic seat
under the verandah, and on this Kellson and the Chief Constable sat and
talked for half an hour. Then the latter said "Good night" and left.
Kellson remained sitting on the rustic seat, feeling in a better frame
of mind. The Moon rose over the big mountain in front of the house and
distant about five miles. The soft moonlight made the landscape
wonderfully beautiful. The whole mountain was draped in snow-while,
clinging mist, except the very summit, over which the Moon was hanging.
The peacefulness of the hour stole into his heart, and his brain calmed
down. The mountain suggested to him the past, and the pure, white mist
shrouding it seemed like vapour risen from the merciful waters of
Lethe. The Moon suggested hope, vague and undefined, lint still hope.
With the swing as of a pendulum his consciousness swept back from the
dark night of despondency and bathed its wings in light. Then his
soothed spirit felt the need of sleep, so he entered the house and
began to prepare for bed.
The waggon-road from the village scarped around the slope at the back
of the house, and he heard the clatter of a waggon passing along it.
The noise irritated him sorely--he could not tell why. Soon it ceased,
and he wondered why the waggon should have stopped where it did. A few
minutes afterwards he heard the sound of approaching footsteps, so he
paused in his undressing, wondering irritably who was coming to disturb
him. Then he heard a light tap at the front door.
Taking a candle, he went to the door and opened it. He saw before him a
woman. She was coloured, but of mixed race, the European element
evidently preponderating. She was elderly--certainly over forty years
of age--very thin; and she stooped somewhat. Her face was drawn and
haggard, but her eyes were still beautiful--black, large, and deep. She
was decently but poorly dressed.
"Good evening, sir," she said, speaking Dutch.
"Good evening," replied Kellson. "What do you want?"
"I beg your pardon. Sir, coming at this time to trouble you. I only
came because I am in great grief. But do you not know me?"
"No," said Kellson, after scanning her features carefully; "I do not
remember you. What is your name?"
"I am Rachel, sir."
"Rachel," he said, sharply; "not Rachel Arends?"
"Yes, Sir, I was Rachel Arends, but I married Martin Erlank, the
blacksmith of Ratel Hoek, just after you left, long ago."
Kellson turned sick at heart. Here was a reminder of a thing he had
fain forgotten, come to drive away the peace he had just acquired. Here
was the ghost of a sin of long ago, which had put on flesh and blood
and come back to haunt him. It was horrible. He looked at the woman--
she returned his gaze timidly for a moment, and then humbly drooped her
head. Her manner and attitude suggested woe and utter humility. Then a
wave of kindness and pity swept through him. Here was a fellow-creature
with whom he had tasted the sweets of sin, long ago. Her youth, and all
of her that he remembered, had been left behind by the hurrying years.
Only one thing was clear, she was in trouble and she wanted his help.
He would succour her if he could.
"Come in," he said to her kindly; and she followed him into the empty
dining-room. He closed the shutters, and placed the candle on the
window-sill. Then he fetched the only two chairs out of his bedroom. He
placed one for her, and sat in the other himself.
"Now, Rachel," he said in a kind voice, "what can I do for you?"
Rachel tried to speak, but sobs choked her. Kellson sat and watched
her, trying to imagine the course of the change in her appearance
through the nineteen years. Where had her beauty gone to--the clear
yellow of her cheeks, through which the red seemed to burn, making them
look like ripe nectarines. Where was her graciously curved bosom? Ah!
"Where are the snows of yester-year?"
"Oh, Sir," she said at length, "I have come to you about my son whom
you punished today."
Kellson now for the first time remembered that the surname she had
given him was the same as that of the prisoner whom he had so severely
sentenced. He could now decipher the suggestion in the eyes, which had
so puzzled him.
"Was that your son?" he asked.
"Yes, Sir. I know he is bad, and it is his conduct that has made an old
woman of me. But I thought you might do something for him. I do not
mind about the two years' imprisonment--that may do him good--but the
thirty-six lashes."
"Oh, Sir, his skin has always been so tender, ever since he was a
little baby. It is quite white and soft under his shirt. For the love
of God, do not flog him. I did not know he was to be tried to-day, or I
would have come before. When I heard you were coming I felt sure he
would have had mercy."
"My poor woman," said Kellson, his heart pierced by Rachel's agony,
"what can I do? I have no power to alter the sentence. He had been
convicted so often before that I felt bound to punish him severely."
"I know. I know he deserves it, but for the love of God, take off the
lashes. Oh, Sir, you cannot flog him. Bad as he is, I love him best of
all my children, and all the others are good."
"What can I do?" said Kellson, deeply distressed. "The sentence is
passed. I have no power to change it."
"Oh, Sir, do you not understand--must I tell you? I thought you would
have known."
"What do you mean?"
Rachel again burst into violent weeping, and swayed to and fro in her
chair. For some time she could not speak, Kellson sat and looked at
her, a vague feeling of uneasiness stirring in him. At length she
became calmer, and sat still--her hands pressed to her face. She stood
up, looked fixedly at Kellson for a moment, and then fell un her knees
before him.
"Save him, save him from the flogging," she said hoarsely, "he is your
son."
Kellson sprang to his feet and looked down at the kneeling woman; his
eyes stony with horror, and his face white and rigid. He knew in a
flash that what she said was true. The face that the prisoner's
reminded him of, and that he could not localise, was his own. Several
peculiarities in the prisoner's appearance now struck him. It was quite
clear--as sure as death and as obvious as his sin. He had sentenced
his own son.
For a. while there was no change in the position of either the man or
the woman. Then the woman swayed forward, and laid her face on the
man's feet.
"Save him, save him," she gasped.
Kellson stooped, lifted her from the ground, and placed her in the
chair. He was struck by her extreme lightness.
"Rachel," he said, "I never knew of this. What can I say to you now
but, 'God help us both--or all three of us.' I can give you no hope,
but come and see me to-morrow morning at the Office."
This seemed to comfort her. She stood up, faltered a "Good night," and
went out of the house with feeble steps.
Kellson sat down in his chair and thought. His brain was quite calm,
and his mind was clear, He heard the rumble of the waggon, and the
voice of the boy shouting to the bullocks as he drove the team. He
stood up, and mechanically seized his hat and stick. He wondered where
the keys of the Office were kept. He would go down to the Office, find
the record, and strike the lashes out of the sentence. No--the sentence
must stand. The one stainless record which his conscience held up to
him, was that of his public life. He had never yet done a deed in his
official capacity of which he was ashamed. He must not, at the close of
his career, be guilty of a dishonourable action. The prisoner richly
deserved his sentence. Let him undergo it.
"At the close of his career." Yes, for Kellson felt that he could no
longer live. His limit of endurance had been reached. Life had for some
years past been a sore burthen, and now he could carry it no longer.
Had he not longed for a child--for a son? Did he not know that such
would have made his wife a happy woman and him a contented man? To
live, to know of that degraded thing, for whose existence he was
responsible, being there at the convict station amongst the other human
animals, and becoming lower and more degraded every day. To look
forward through two long years of misery and apprehension to the return
of--his son. His son--a strange yearning towards the vicious creature
he had carelessly glanced at that morning, took possession of him. He
started up again, and seized his hat. He would go down, even though it
were nearly midnight, and get the gaoler to admit him to the prisoner's
cell. He made a few steps towards the door, and then stopped. No,
better not. Reality would blast the delicate glamour-bloom with which
his imagination had clothed for the moment that sordid form. It was the
beauty of the eyes that haunted him. He knew that these imaginings were
false. In another moment they were gone. What--after two years to meet
that horrible cringing creature with the angel's eyes, in the street,
and know him as his son--his son that he had asked God for in the days
when he used to pray. Better a hundred deaths.
Suicide. Why not? Suicide was said to be disgraceful. Why? Other
nations, more civilised in some respects than ours, had held it to be
honourable. Not if one has responsibilities. His wife--well--he
shrewdly suspected that she would be glad of her freedom. He had no
child----Oh, God! Yes he had.
Disgrace to his wife and to his other relations. Ah! here came in the
beauty of his plan. Suicide would never be suspected.
Kellson went into the bedroom and opened his portmanteau. From the
pocket of the partition he took a little bottle of chloral hydrate, a
drug which he was in the habit of using when insomnia pressed heavily
upon him, as it periodically did. The chloral was in five-grain
tabloids. His usual dose was three tabloids or fifteen grains. He now
counted twenty tabloids into a tumbler, which he half filled with
water.
The front door was still open, and Kellson, remembering this, went to
shut it. The moon had now soared high above the mountain, and a
spectacle, wonderfully and wildly beautiful, was revealed. Kellson
walked into the garden and gazed on it. The mist, no longer smooth and
clinging, but drawn and curled into fantastic wreaths, was rising
slowly into the windless sky. The tired-out man took one lingering
look, and then walked quickly into the house. He locked the front door
and went into the bedroom.
He undressed quietly and got into bed, after laying his clothes tidily
on one of the chairs. The chloral had not yet quite melted, so he took
his tooth-brush and stirred the contents of the tumbler with the
handle. In a few moments the last tabloid had dissolved.
Kellson blew the candle out and took a sip of the chloral mixture. It
was so strong that it made him cough. He lit the candle and added more
water. It then struck him that the room might smell close when the
people entered it on the morrow, so he got up and opened the window
wide. He then returned to bed, drank off the contents of the tumbler,
and lay down.
For one wild moment terror at the lowering face of Death took
possession of his soul. It was as though he could sec the awful
features taking form out of the darkness. The dread destroyer that he
had with daring hand roused unseasonably from his lair, seemed to fill
the room--the house--the sky--and call him forth in tones of thunder to
the black and freezing void. Light! Light!
He started up in bed and began to grope for the matchbox. But this
passed away. The face of Death grew mild, and then seemed to smile. He
lay down on his side, his face turned from the open window, composed
himself into a comfortable attitude, and fell softly into the deepest
of all sleeps.
THE QUEST OF THE COPPER.
"A beast with horns that rend and gore
My army rushes through the world;
The white plumes flutter in the fore,
Like mists before a tempest whirled;
The roaring sea when storms are strong
Is not so fierce, the lion's wrath
Is tame when swells the battle-song
That frights the clouds above my path!
"My beaten shields to thunder thrill,
My spears like lightning flash between,
Till raining blood their brightness kill,
Or dim to lurid red their sheen!
At morn and eve the splendid shine of burning clouds
I hail with joy--
The sky thus gives its son the sign
To rise up mighty, and destroy!"
Zulu Pictures. Tshaka.
I.
TSHAKA, king of the Zulus, sat in state in his Royal Kraal one morning
in the month of March, 1816. His throne was a log of white ironwood
standing on its end, from the upper portion of which the stumps of
three thick branches expanded, thus giving it the rough semblance of an
arm-chair. The ends of the stumps were rounded and polished. The
throne was standing upon the skin of a large, black-maned lion, and the
king's feet were resting upon the mane. A number of indunas,
councilors, and officers stood around the king in respectful attitudes,
or moved about quietly, and silently.
Tshaka's mother, Mnande, sat on the ground some distance away, her ear
strained to catch every word chat fell from her son's lips. A few yards
behind her five young girls crouched on their knees and elbows, each
with an earthen pot of beer, or a skin of curdled milk before her. As
each new-comer arrived within a certain distance of the throne, he
flung his spear and shield to the ground, and then came forward. When
he reached within about twenty paces of Tshaka, he held his right hand
high over his head and called out "Bayete," which is the Zulu royal
salute. He then advanced and prostrated himself before the King's feet.
Tshaka was a man of magnificent build. He sat perfectly naked except
for a bunch of leopard tails slung from his waist, and a few charms
fastened to a thin cord around his neck.
Kondwana, commander of the 'Nyatele regiment, an induna of the Abambo
tribe, was called before the king. He approached, under the customary
obeisance, and then stood up.
"You will take," said Tshaka, "what remains of the 'Nyatele regiment (a
regiment that had suffered very severely in a recent campaign from
fever in the coast swamps above St. Lucia Bay, as well as from
slaughter by the spear), and go to the country beyond the mountains of
the Amaswazi, where the green and yellow stones from which the red
metal (copper) is smelted, are dug out of the ground. You will bring
back so much of these stones as will cover, when heaped up, the skins
of three large oxen. You will return before the Summer rains have
fallen. Go."
Kondwana was a distinguished man. He had, years previously, fought
against Tshaka, but since his tribe, the Abambo, had made submission,
and had been incorporated into the Zulu nation, he had served his new
master with faithfulness and zeal. But one of the awkward conditions of
savagery is this, that whenever a subordinate shows any extraordinary
capacity, and consequently attains to a position of influence, his
master is apt to regard him with jealousy and fear, and will therefore
often destroy him ruthlessly on the first shadow of a pretext. In
jealousy and mistrust of capable subordinates, the average savage
potentate resembles Louis the Fourteenth of France, of pious memory,
who could never bear to have a really capable man near his throne in a
position of trust. Kondwana happened to be under the ban of Tshaka's
suspicion, which, once roused, was never allayed. This is the
explanation of his having been sent with his splendid regiment on a
useless expedition through the deadly fever country just to the south
of Delagoa Bay, between the Lebomba Mountains and the sea, and of his
now having to go with the effective remnant of his veterans on a quest
for copper to a hypothetical spot only vaguely rumoured of.
Amongst the spoil of a recent and very distant northern raid were a few
copper bangles, and the prisoners from whom these were taken said that
the metal had been smelted from green and yellow stones dug out of a
mountain far to the north. In a native forge at one of the villages
sacked, a few stones of the kind described had been found, and these
were brought to Tshaka. No other information on the subject was to be
had, yet Kondwana at once prepared to start upon his quest, knowing
that if he failed to carry out the king's order to the very letter, his
life would inevitably pay the forfeit.
Kondwana was a tall and very powerful man, jet black, but with a
pleasing expression of countenance when not moved to wrath. He was as
brave as a lion, and perfectly loyal to the king.
Tshaka possessed the faculty of inspiring loyalty to a high degree, but
he was unaware of this. Being of a highly suspicious nature, he
sacrificed to his groundless apprehensions numbers of his most loyal
and devoted adherents.
Kondwana returned to his kraal after being shown specimens of the
mineral which he had to seek. These were a few small lumps of shining
stone--some being blue in colour and some yellow. In others both
colours were present. When freshly broken, the blue specimens were
beautifully iridescent, and showed tints such as are seen in the
peacock's tail. Upon arriving at the headquarter military kraal next
morning, he mustered his regiment, and found it to be about four
hundred and fifty strong (effective). There were several hundred more
at the kraal, but they were still suffering from fever. The men were
all veterans, and thus wore head-rings, circular bands about seven
inches in diameter, of a black substance composed principally of gum.
These bands being about an inch thick, were fixed to the hair around
the crown of the head, and thus afforded a very effective protection
against blows.
The expedition started. A number of the men carried strong iron picks
for the purpose of digging out the ore. They took a small herd of
cattle for immediate use as food, but they depended upon proximate
spoil for future sustenance. After crossing the Pongola river, the
party made a detour inland so as to avoid a collision with the
Amaswazi, with whom Kondwana did not want, just then, to fight. This
took them through some very mountainous country, where they suffered
grievously from cold. Some of the men in whose blood germs of fever
still remained, began to sicken, and were mercifully put to death. But
as it advanced through the mountains the little party had some very
enjoyable fighting and looting, the Mantatee tribelets offering no more
resistance than afforded pleasant exercise. The loot was ample, and the
soldiers simply feasted on meat. At night they often warmed themselves
before the burning huts. They obtained from the vanquished Mantatees
many soft, warm skins, for the mountain tribes, living under a
comparatively cold climate, had become very expert in tanning. These
skins were carried for them by the good-looking young women of the
kraals which were "eaten up," for the lives of such, when their
services were required, were generally spared.
It was only the veterans of the Zulu army that wore head-rings, but
there was one man with Kondwana's contingent whose head was ringless.
This was Senzanga, the son of Kondwana's elder brother Kwasta. Senzanga
had been spared by a fortunate accident when his father's kraal and its
inhabitants had been destroyed a few months previously by Tshaka's
order. Being fleet of foot, he had escaped to the bush, and he had
ever since had a precarious existence as a fugitive, being fed by some
women at the risk of their lives. Hearing through them of an expedition
under the command of his uncle, he went, on ahead, and at the Pongola
appeared and asked for Kondwana's protection, as well as for leave to
accompany the expedition. Kondwana knew that he ran a serious risk in
not killing Senzanga at once, but after consulting with his officers,
he decided on venturing to spare the young man's life, meaning to
deliver him as a prisoner to Tshaka on the return of the expedition,
and then pray that he might be pardoned for the fault he had not
committed, and which had been so heavily punished.
After getting well past the Amaswazi country, the expedition left the
mountains, and traveled through the low, wooded plains that lie between
the Drakensberg on the north-west, and the Lebomba hills on the
south-east. In this region no men dwell: except the wretched "Balala," naked
and weaponless fugitives from the Tonga and other tribes, whose
villages had been destroyed in war, and who had escaped to lead a life
in the desert compared with which death by the spear would have been
merciful.