the fire, looking, if possible, more ghastly than before. The presence
of Whitson seemed, however, to act on him as a kind of tonic, and he
soon pulled himself together sufficiently to assist in piling a
quantity of fuel upon the already sinking fire, which soon blazed
brightly, lighting up the mouth of the cavern and the space in front of
it. One of the bodies of the men who had been shot was lying on its
side, with the face towards the fire. Whitson examined the mouth,
pushing back the upper lip with a piece of stick. He found that the
shape of the mouth and the development of the teeth were the same as
Ghamba's. The other bodies were lying on their faces, so he did not
trouble to examine them.
Whitson then told Langley to follow him, and the two walked down the
footpath towards where they had left Ghamba, Him they found lying
motionless in the position in which he had been left about an hour
previously. They removed the sack and the gag and untied his feet,
first taking the precaution to fasten the belt by one end of his bound
hands, Whitson holding the other. They then signed to him to proceed
towards the cave, and this he silently did without making any
resistance. He looked calmly at the three dead bodies, but said not a
word. Langley held him, whilst Whitson again tied his feet together
with the belt, and then they placed him with his back against a rock,
facing the fire which was still blazing brightly.
His lips were drawn back in a ghastly, mirthless grin, and the tusks
were revealed from point to insertion, Langley questioned Ghamba, but
he would not speak. After several attempts to force him to answer had
been vainly made, Whitson said--
"Now tell him that if he speaks and tells the whole truth, he will only
be shot, but if he does not speak, he will be burnt alive."
This was interpreted, but the threat had no apparent effect. So
Whitson seized Ghamba and dragged him to the fire, where he flung him
down on the very edge of the glowing embers.
"Now," said Whitson, holding him down with his foot, so that he got
severely scorched, "for the last time, will you speak?"
"Take me away from the fire, and I will speak," said Ghamba, in
English.
So they lifted him, and set him again with his back to the rock.
"Now," said Whitson, "go ahead, and no nonsense."
"If I tell the whole truth," said Ghamba, still speaking English, and
with a fair accent, "will you swear not to burn me, but to shoot me, so
that I shall die at once?"
"I will," said Whitson.
"You too must swear," said Ghamba, looking at Langley.
"Yes, I swear."
"Very well," said Ghamba, "I will tell you everything, but you must
both remember what you have sworn to."
"Yes, all right," said Whitson. Ghamba then looked at Langley, who
repeated the words.
"I will tell you," said Ghamba, "all I can remember, and you can ask
questions, which I shall answer truly. You have heard of Umdava, who
used to eat men in Natal long ago, after the wars of Tshaka--well, he
was my uncle. After Umdava had been killed and his people scattered, my
father, with a few followers, came to live amongst these mountains. But
we found that after having eaten human flesh we could enjoy no other
food, so we caught people and ate them. These two men lying dead are my
sons, and that woman is my daughter. My four wives were here to-night.
They are very old women. Have you not seen them?" he asked, looking at
Whitson.
"They are in there; I shot them," said Whitson, pointing to the cave.
"I had other children," continued Ghamba, quite unmoved, "but we ate
them when food was scarce."
"Have you always lived, all these years, on human flesh?" asked
Whitson.
"No, not always; but whenever we could obtain it we did so. There is
other food in these mountains. Honey, ants' eggs, roots, and fruit;
besides game, which is, however, not very easy to catch. But we have
often all had to go away and work when times have been bad. Besides, I
have a herd of cattle at a Basuto kraal, and I have been in the habit
of taking some of these now and then, and exchanging them for corn,
which the women then went to fetch. But we have always tried to get
people to eat, because we could enjoy no other kind of food. Sometimes
we got them easily; and when we were very fortunate we used to dry part
of the meat by hanging it up and lighting a fire underneath, with green
wood, so as to make plenty of smoke."
"Have you killed many white people?" asked Whitson.
"Yes, a good number; but not, of course, as many as black. Lately we
have always tried to catch whites, because when you have eaten while
flesh for some time, the flesh of a native no longer satisfies you."
"Why not?"
"The flavour is not so strong."
"Did you induce the other two policemen to come up by means of the
story about Umhlonhlo?"
"Yes, they came up just as you did, and my sons caught them with the
thongs. Umhlonhlo has brought us plenty of food."
"Were you able to take the cartridges out of their revolvers as you did
out of mine?"
"No, I had no opportunity; but it was not necessary, because my sons
were so expert at throwing the thongs that they could always catch
people over the arms, and thus render them unable to shoot."
"How did they manage to become so expert?"
"By continued practice, I used to walk up the path over and over again,
and let them throw the thong over me. Then the woman was always there
with the club, so that if one of the thongs missed, she was ready to
strike. I, also, was usually ready to help in case of necessity."
"Why did you think it necessary to take the cartridges out of my
revolver?"
"Because I feared you from the first, and were it not that he," baring
his teeth, and glancing at Langley, who shuddered, "looked so nice, and
that we wanted fresh meat so badly, I would not have risked bringing
you. But it would have been all right if I had only let your revolver
alone."
"You say Umhlonhlo has brought you plenty of food; did you ever get any
one besides ourselves and the other two policemen to come up here by
telling them that story?"
"Yes, two others--one a man who was searching for gold on the Free
State side of the mountains, and the other a trader whom I met at
Maseru. But these each came alone."
"I see the buckle of a woman's belt in there! Whom did that belong to?
You surely never got a white woman up here?"
"Yes, we did," said Ghamba, with a horrible half smile which bared the
gums high above the sockets of his tusks. "She was a young girl who
strayed from a waggon passing over the mountain by the Ladysmith road,
only a day's walk from here. I pretended to show her the shortest way
to her waggon, and thus brought her as far as she could walk in this
direction. I then killed her, and came up here and fetched my sons. We
carried her up in the night. She was very young and plump, and I have
never eaten anything that I enjoyed so much." (Whitson turned cold with
horror. He remembered the girl's mysterious disappearance, and the
fruitless searches undertaken in consequence.) "His flesh" (glancing
again at Langley) "looks something like hers did, and I am sure it
would taste just as nice. There was still a little of her left when I
went away last week. If you will go in there and look where the rock is
split on the right-hand side, you will----" But he did not finish the
sentence, for a bullet from Whitson's revolver crashed through his
brain, and he tumbled forward on his face into the fire.
It was only after tremendous difficulty that Whitson and Langley
succeeded in escaping from the mountains. However, on the evening of
the third day after their adventure in the cave, they came in sight of
the police camp, Whitson sat down on a stone, and motioned his
companion to do the same.
"See here, Sonny," he said, "I want to have a short talk with you. I am
a bit cross with you as the cause of my having been sucked in by that
damned, murdering old walrus. You ought to know the inhabitants of this
country better than a simple stranger like me, and so I took your lead.
Now, another thing, you nearly bust us both by your blasted foolishness
in going to sleep that day; but let that pass, because perhaps it would
have been worse if we had not been put on our guard; not but that it
would take a damned smart cannibal to eat Hiram Whitson. But this is
what I am coming to: you my boy are a darned sight too fond of hearing
your own tongue clack. Now, lake a warning from me, and don't let a
word of what has happened since we left Camp--for Pietermaritzburg--
pass your lips. I did all the shooting, and I'm not a bit ashamed of
it; but, by the eternal God, if you open your lips to a soul, I'll
shoot you like a dog or a cannibal. Remember that, Sonny, and say it
quietly over to yourself the first time you fee that you want to blab.
Now shake hands."
This was probably the longest speech that Whitson had ever made.
About two years after the events narrated, Whitson took his discharge
and returned to America. He left behind him a sealed packet addressed
to his Commanding Officer, and which was not to be delivered for twelve
months after his departure.
Owing, however, to a strange combination of fortuitous circumstances,
this packet never reached its proper destination; its wrapper, bearing
the address, having been scorched off in a fire which took place in the
house where it was left.
NOTE.
Many people have heard or read of the cannibals of Natal, who turned
large tracts of country into a shambles in the early part of this
century, after Tshaka's impis had swept off all the cattle, and then
kept the miserable people continually on the move, so that they were
unable to cultivate. One Umdava originated the practice of eating human
flesh. Gathering together the fragments of four scattered tribes, he
trained them to hunt human beings as others hunted game. This gang was
a greater scourge to the country surrounding the present site of
Pietermaritzburg than even Tshaka's murdering hordes. It was broken up
in or about the year 1824 when the Europeans first came to the country,
and the remnants of many scattered tribes returned and settled under
their protection.
All this is history with which most people in South Africa are
familiar, but many do not know that some of the cannibals fled to
Basutoland where, amongst almost inaccessible mountains, they carried
on their horrible practices for many years.
It is a well-known fact that when men once surrender themselves to any
unnatural and brutal vice, the gratification of the abnormal instinct
thus acquired becomes the most imperative need of their nature. The
Falkland Islands case, as bearing specially upon the foregoing
narrative, may be mentioned. Some convicts escaped from the Falkland
Islands convict station, and succeeded in reaching the coast of
Patagonia. They then endeavoured to make their way to Monte Video, but,
having to keep along the shore so as to avoid the natives who would
have killed them had they ventured inland, were easily intercepted by
the Government cutter which was always dispatched in cases of the kind
to head off fugitives upon their only possible course. Of the party,
only one man was found alive. In their dreadful need the men had cast
lots as to who should be killed and eaten by the others, and this went
on until only the one man remained. His sufferings had been so horrible
that he was let off any further punishment, and simply brought back to
the Island to complete the term of his sentence. Some months after,
this man induced another to escape with him in a boat, and when the
boat was overtaken it was found he had killed his companion for the
purpose of eating the latter's flesh. This was apparent from the fact
that the supply of food which the fugitives had taken with them was not
exhausted.
UKUSHWAMA.
"No ghosts, they say.
What is a ghost?--
Nay, what are thoughts and stars and winds?
They cannot tell--they show at most
Those formal swathes the pedant binds
Across clear eyes, the while he plugs
The apertures of liberal lugs."
SHAGBAG on Dogmatism.
I.
I had been for two days endeavouring to frame a workable quarantine
scheme in respect of an outbreak of lung sickness amongst the natives'
cattle in several of those deep valleys which cleave the Xomlenzi range
from the Northern bank of the Tina River, and it was late in afternoon
when I reached the kraal of my friend Numjala, Headman over a section
of the Baca tribe of Kafirs. The mounted policeman who had accompanied
me let his tired horse fall in a particularly bad drift, thus laming
the animal, and had had to remain behind in consequence. Thus I was
alone, but this circumstance did not trouble me, because my horse was
fresh, and I knew the country well.
Numjala is a roan of parts; he must be well over sixty years of age,
but his eye is bright and his wit is keen. He is well off, for a
native, and very hospitable.
The moon being new, her pale crescent sank quickly after the sun, but
the sky was perfectly clear and the stars more than ordinarily bright.
To reach home I had about twelve miles to ride, that is, by taking a
short cut along footpaths; along the main road the distance was nearer
twenty.
Numjala was very anxious that I should spend the night at his kraal,
and offered, would I agree to remain, to kill a juicy looking kid and
roast it for supper. I had, however, promised my wife to return by
midnight, and I feared she might be uneasy were I not to do so; I
therefore declined the invitation.
"Does your horse lead well?" asked Numjala.
"Not particularly," I replied; "why do you ask?"
"You say you are going by the footpath past the Ghoda bush?"
"Yes."
"Unless your horse leads well, you will never get him past the Ghoda
to-night, this being the night of the New Moon. You will certainly
never ride him past."
The Ghoda bush is a narrow strip of forest running down the side of a
steep mountain which forms one side of a valley, the other side being
formed of a perpendicular cliff, at the foot of which a stream brawls.
The strip of forest does not quite reach the stream, a grassy glade,
about twenty-five yards in width, lying between. Over this glade the
footpath leads. The Ghoda is about a mile from Numjala's kraal, and
just beyond it is the drift over the stream.
"What has the Moon to do with it?" I asked.
"That is a hard question. I only know that no horse can be ridden past
the Ghoda after sundown when the Moon is new."
"Look here, Numjala," I said reprovingly, "a man of your intelligence
ought to be ashamed of even pretending to believe such a thing. Why
this is worse than what you told me about the grass not growing at the
spot where Ncapayi and his men were killed by the Pondos."
"Is it?"
(Ncapayi, Great Chief of the Baca tribe, with many hundreds of his
followers, was killed in 1845 in a battle fought with the Pondos on the
Northern bank of the Umzimvubo river, between what is now Mount Frere
and the sea.)
"Yes, and nearly as bad as your account of the snow falling on Tshaka's
impi and killing hundreds of his soldiers, whilst it fell nowhere else
in the neighbourhood."
"Why should not that be true?"
Fearing that it would be useless to attempt demonstrating to Numjala
that, logically, no one is bound to prove a negative, I evaded his
question, and said:
"You told me the other day that you believed in witchcraft. Surely you
did not mean that?"
"Why not? Did not your great Prophet--every one of whose sayings all
you white people believe so thoroughly and follow so carefully"--it
will be seen that Numjala can be sarcastic--"believe in evil spirits,
and even drive them forth? Is it not this that the witch-doctor claims
to do? Did not the Prophet of the Wesleyans believe in witchcraft? Now,
if you believe the words of your Prophets about some things, why not
about others?"
I was surprised at these words, knowing Numjala to be a heathen, and I
suppose I must have shown this, for he added:
"I have talked with the missionaries, or rather they have talked to me.
Besides, my brother's son is an evangelist, and he has told me a lot
about what is taught in the schools."
"But, surely, Numjala, your experience must have taught you that
witchcraft is all humbug (imfeketu), and that before the English rule,
the witch-doctor was simply the instrument of the chief for suppressing
people who became too rich or too powerful."
"The witch-doctor may often be a humbug (kohlisi), and yet it is
possible that there may be such a thing as witchcraft. A missionary, to
whom I pointed out that some who preached the gospel had been since
proved evil men, once said much the same thing to me about religion. I
am an old man, and I have learnt many things, and one is this: He who
always says of the thing he does not understand, 'This cannot be,' is
in danger of being put to shame."
"Well, Numjala, tell me the story about the Ghoda bush, for I am sure
there is a story."
"I will tell it if you stay here to-night."
"But I must go home."
"Well then, I will make a bargain with you. You have already passed the
Ghoda, and therefore you know the footpath leading to the drift."
"Yes, I know it well. I traveled it only the day before yesterday."
"Very well. You will take the pathway tonight, and if you can ride your
horse past the Ghoda, well and good--you will go home to your wife. If
not, you will return and sleep here. The kid will be roasted, and you
shall hear the story. Do you agree?"
"Certainly I do."
"Just one thing:--remember that you are to ride past. It is possible,
although I think it unlikely, that you might reach the drift if you
blind-folded the horse and led him."
"I quite understand. Good-bye."
"I will not say 'Good-bye.' You will return and hear the story."
As I rode away laughing, I heard Numjala calling out to his son
Tantiso, telling him to catch a certain kid, kill it, and prepare it
for immediate roasting. My course led down the hillside, and then along
the level bottom of the valley on the left-hand side of which is the
Ghoda Bush. The stream was on my right, and the pathway on which I was
riding ran parallel with it, distant about twenty yards.
As I drew near the Ghoda I felt somewhat creepy. My horse was a steady
old stager, not at all given to shying. He went along at a quick amble,
and as I neared the fateful spot, I freshened up my courage with the
thought that in a few moments I would have crossed the drift, and then
the Ghoda and its ghost would be well behind me. My horse was stepping
out briskly and without showing the least sign of suspicion, when all
at once he gave a loud snort and wheeled sharply to the right,
completely unseating me, However, I did not fall off, as I managed to
clutch hold of his mane. As I swung back into the saddle, I saw that we
had narrowly escaped falling down the sleep bank into the stream.
To save my self-respect, I made another attempt to pass, but more or
less the same thing happened, except that I kept my seat, and managed
to avoid going so near the bank, I then left the horse to himself, and
he ambled back to Numjala's kraal. When I dismounted he was wet with
perspiration, and trembling violently. I will not say how I felt, but
my sensations were not comfortable.
Numjala evinced no surprise, nor did he attempt to triumph over me in
any way. Neither did he (then, or ever) ask me what had happened. He
took my return, quite as a matter of course.
We sat down to supper. The kid was excellent, and the foaming koumis
from the big calabash equal to champagne. After supper I spread my rug
at one side of the fireplace--Numjala unrolled his mat at the other. We
lay down and smoked our pipes in silence for some time, and then
Numjala told me the following story.
II.
It is many years since I first came to live on this spot. I was then a
poor man, although the 'great son' of my father, who was a chief of
some importance. He died with Ncapayi in the battle on the Umzimvubo,
and shortly afterwards all our cattle were swept off, I had then only
two wives, and the eldest child by the first wife was a girl whom I
called Nomalie. Many daughters have been borne to me since, and my
kraal is full of their 'lobola' cattle, but the only girl of the lot
that I was ever really fond of was Nomalie--perhaps because she was my
first child.
"She grew up--tall and straight, with well-formed limbs. I remember
that from her birth she had a soft look in her face, and her eyes were
very large. She was rather light in colour. It was said that her
mother's grandfather was a white man. Her mother's family came from the
Amavangwane country, which is on the sea-coast, and I have been told
that long ago a white man came out of the sea and took a woman of the
tribe as his wife. One of this man's daughters was the mother of my
wife, who was Nomalie's mother. It was strange that my wife showed no
trace whatever of white descent, whilst Nomalie most certainly did,
both in colour and feature.
"As soon as ever Nomalie reached a marriageable age, many men wanted to
marry her, but when the suitors came to 'metja' (woo) she would have
nothing to do with them. I soon found out the reason of this; she had
grown fond of a young man named Xolilizwe, a son of the right-hand
house of one of Ncapayi's counselors who, like me, had lost all his
wealth. Xolilizwe dwelt with his uncle Kwababana--a very old man--over
the hill at the back of the cliff facing the Ghoda. He was a few years
older than Nomalie, and he often used to stay for weeks at a time here
at my kraal. Xolilizwe was all that a young man should be, except that
he was poor, and his uncle, old Kwababana, could give him nothing.
"Xolilizwe was brave and strong, and I had gladly given him Nomalie,
but you know what we Kafirs are; no man will give his daughter to one
who cannot pay 'ikazi' (dowry). Besides, no girl would want to marry
such a man--no matter how much she liked him--for she would always be
known as the woman for whom no dowry had been paid, and this would be a
reproach to her and all her relations.
"Nomalie was very young, and I was so fond of her that I did not want
to force her to marry against her will. But seeing how matters stood, I
told Xolilizwe that he had better keep away. Shortly after this he
disappeared from the neighbourhood.
"In the days I speak of, Lukwazi was the most important man in these
parts. Although inferior to me in rank, he was very rich, and Makaula,
Ncapayi's successor, had made him Chief over the people in this
neighbourhood; consequently I was under him. Nearly all my father's
people having been killed, the few who remained were placed under
Lukwazi, his kraal was the one on the top of the second ridge beyond
the Ghoda. No one liked Lukwazi, though many feared him on account of
his cunning, and his wealth gave him power. He was a very big man, of a
wrathful temper, and they said that though he loved the smell of other
men's blood, he feared to smell his own. At the time I speak of he was
an elderly man, and had (I think) twelve wives and many children.
"Well, one day Lukwazi called here in passing, and saw Nomalie. About a
week afterwards two of his messengers came and said that he wanted her
as his wife. I was both glad and sorry. Glad, because I was poor and
wanted cattle, and when it is a question of lobola, a chief gives more
than an ordinary man; but sorry because I disliked Lukwazi, and felt
uneasy at giving him my favourite daughter. Of course I could not
refuse, I being Lukwazi's man.
"Nomalie cried bitterly, and at first declared that she would never go
to him, but I told her that she must, and that I would, if necessary,
make her do so. I could not afford to fall out with Lukwazi, my Chief,
and a powerful, revengeful man. Besides, the girl had to marry some
one, and I naturally wanted her to marry him who would pay the most
cattle. After a while she ceased to object, but she went about looking
so sad that I never liked to see her. She used to come near me, and
look into my face, and this made me feel so sorrowful that I tried to
avoid her as much as possible. Just before they took her away I was so
distressed at the sight of her misery that I could have even then put a
stop to the marriage only that I was afraid to make an enemy of
Lukwazi.
"At length they came to fetch her, and I shall never forget the look
she gave me over her shoulder whilst being led away. Then I comforted
myself with the thought that when she came back after the fifth day,
driving the ox for the marriage feast, she would not look so miserable.