"WHERE I COME IN."
"White dogs!"
"Ha! Calves of Matyana, the least of the Great One's cattle."
"Pups of Tyingoza, the white man's dog! _Au_!"
"Sweepings of the Abe Sutu!"
"Amakafula!" [Kafirs.]
Such were but few of the opprobrious phrases, rolled forth alternately,
in the clear sonorous Zulu, from alternate sides of the river, which
flowed laughing and bubbling on in the sunlight, between its high banks
of tree-shaded rocks. Yet in spite of the imputation of "whiteness"
made by the one, they of the other party were in no shade of bronze
duskiness removed from those who made it. Each party numbered about a
dozen: young men all, with the same lithe straight forms destitute of
all clothing but a skin _mutya_; armed with the same two or three
assegais and a knobstick apiece, eke small hide shields. There was no
outward visible difference between them, as how indeed, should there be,
since both were sprung from absolutely the same stock? But the
difference was essential for all that, for whereas one party dwelt upon
the Natal side of the river, the other was composed of warriors of the
king, the limits of whose territory they dared not overstep.
"Come over and fight!" challenged the latter, waving their shields.
"Ha! Come over to us," was the answer.
Here was an _impasse_. Brimming over with fight as they were, the first
hesitated to embark on what would amount to nothing less than a raid
upon English territory; for did the news of it reach the ears of the
King--as it almost certainly would--why death to the whole lot of them
was the least they could expect. On the other hand if the Natal party
could be induced to cross why they would make such an example of these
Amakafula--as they contemptuously called them--that the latter, for very
shame's sake, would be only too careful to say nothing at all of the
affair.
"We leave not our land," came the answer to this after a hesitating
pause. "Cross ye hither, cowards. Ye are more than us by two."
"Ah--ah! But we shall be less by more than two when we reach the bank.
You will strike us in the water."
"We will not," called out the spokesman on the Zulu side. "You shall
even have time to recover breath. Is it not so, brothers?"
"_Eh-he_!" chorussed his followers in loud assent.
"Swear it."
"U' Tshaka!"
The awful name rolled forth sonorously from every throat. An oath
ratified on the name of the greatest king their world had ever known was
ratified indeed. Hardly had it sounded than a joyful whoop rent the
air. A dozen bronze bodies flashed in the sunlight and amid a mighty
splash a dozen dark heads bobbed up above the surface of the long deeply
flowing reach. A moment later, and their owners had ploughed their way
to the other side, and emerged streaming from the river, their shields
and weapons still held aloft in the left hand, as they had been during
the crossing in order to keep them dry.
"We will drop our weapons, and fight only with sticks, brothers,"
proposed the Zulu leader. "Is that to be?"
"As you will," returned the Natal party, and immediately all assegais
were cast to the ground.
The place was an open glade which sloped down to the water, between
high, tree-fringed rocks. Both sides stood looking at each other, every
chest panting somewhat with suppressed excitement. Then a quick, shrill
whistle from the Zulu leader, and they met in full shock.
It was something of a Homeric strife, as these young heroes came
together. There was no sound but the slap of shield meeting shield; the
clash and quiver of hard wood; the quick, throaty panting of the
combatants. Then the heavy crunch of skull or joint, and half a dozen
are down quivering or motionless, while their conquerors continue to
batter them without mercy.
Leaping, whirling--gradually drawing away from the rest, two of the
combatants are striving; each devoting every nerve, every energy, to the
overthrow of the other. But each feint is met by counter feint, each
terrible swinging stroke by the crash of equally hard wood or the dull
slap of tough hide shield opposed in parry. Already more are down,
still about even numbers on each side, and still these two combatants
strive on. Both are tall, supple youths, perfect models of proportion
and sinewy grace and strength. Then a sudden crunching sound, and the
blood is pouring from the head of one of them.
"One to thee, son of Tyingoza!" cries the wielder of the successful
stroke, nimbly swerving to avoid the return one.
"It was `white dog' but now," snarls the other, savagely, and with a
deft underswing of his knobstick delivering a numbing blow on the side
of his adversary's leg. It is a good blow, yet he is beginning to
stagger, half stunned, and blinded with his own blood.
"Ha! Give up, and run to the river, while there is time," jeers his
opponent, who is the leader of the Zulu party.
For answer, he who is apostrophised as the son of Tyingoza, rushes upon
the speaker with such a sudden access of apparently resistless ferocity,
that the latter is forced backward somewhat by the very fury of the
onslaught; but--such are the fortunes of war. Already the bulk of those
who have crossed from the Natal side are down, two of them stone dead--
and the rest, demoralised already, are plunging into the river and
striking out for their own shore. They cannot get to the aid of their
leader because of the foes who are pressing them hard, and barring their
way. The said foes, now victors, thus freed, turn to spring to the aid
of their own leader, and the whole group, uttering a loud bloodthirsty
shout hurls itself upon the son of Tyingoza. He, though he has given up
all hope, still battles valorously, when a stick, deftly hurled, strikes
him hard and full upon one shin, snapping the bone, and vanquished he
sinks to the earth, still instinctively holding up his shield to avert
the rain of blows showered upon him, and which, in a moment or so will
batter his skull to a pulp; for they see red now, those blood-frenzied
combatants, and no considerations of mercy will avail to stay their
murderous arms.
But that moment or so is destined to bring forth weighty results. There
has been a spectator of the whole affray unseen by the combatants, and
now he steps forth.
"Stand back!" he shouts, coming right between the slayers and their
prey. "Back, I say! He is down and ye are many. Let him live."
"No, he shall die. Out of our way, white man!"
None but a white man--or their own chief--could have restrained these
hot bloods at such a moment, yet this one was determined to do it,
although the process was not much safer than that of attempting to
snatch a bone from a hungry mastiff.
"You are boys, therefore foolish," he cried. "If you slay the son of a
chief how long will it be before the English carry the word to the Great
Great One's ears? Then--good-night!"
This told--as no other argument would have told. They held their hands,
though some muttered that both should be slain to make things all the
safer. And the white man so far had displayed no weapon. In fact he
had none.
"Get up, son of Tyingoza," he said, "and get back to thine own side of
the river, which it was foolish to leave."
The wounded youth managed to stagger to his feet, the white man aiding
him. Several of those who had fallen did likewise, the conquerors
sullenly drawing off, to help their own stricken comrades. And what a
scene the place presented. Broken knobkerries and broken heads,
battered shields and twisted limbs, and red, nauseous, sticky pools
glittering among the grass. Three of those fallen would never rise
again. And what was it all about? Nothing. Absolutely nothing.
"_Au_! it is Iqalaqala," muttered the young Zulus, as the white man
assisted the chief's son to cross the river. "Fare thee well,
Iqalaqala. We have but played at a fight. _Au_! It was only play."
And that is how I come into the story.