There followed a moment of tense silence. Then a fresh hubbub arose on
the outskirts of the crowd, quite a number of which broke away, and made
for the lower end of the building. Harley Greenoak and MacFennel's
assistant looked at each other. Both had caught the proposed new move.
"I'll take care of this, Mr Greenoak," said the latter, a rough and
ready, powerful young fellow who understood the Kafirs and their
language as one of themselves. "Burn the house, will they? We shall
see."
He dived inside. Hardly had he done so than a change seemed to come
over the fierce and threatening crowd. Anxiously the savages looked
this way and that, then broke into groups, conversing more quietly. The
electricity of the storm seemed to have spent itself. Harley Greenoak
still stood leaning on the railing of the stoep in easy attitude--he
had, as yet, shown no weapon. Probably a patrol of Mounted Police had
appeared in sight, was the thought in the minds of the others.
There was a thud of horse-hoofs approaching from behind the house, and
then--No squad of mounted troopers appeared, only a single Kafir, an old
man, riding a sorry-looking and under-sized pony. At sight of him the
mass of hitherto turbulent savages murmured respectful greeting, and a
rush was made to hold his stirrup while he dismounted.
"You can put away your pistol now, Dick," said Harley Greenoak's quiet
voice.
"Why? Have the Police turned up?" answered Dick, as he obeyed. It was
significant of the absolute reliance he placed on Greenoak's lightest
word in such matters that Dick Selmes never dreamed of disputing any one
of his pronouncements.
"No. Better even than that. Tyala has."
"Who's Tyala? Is he a chief?"
"Yes, and one of Sandili's principal councillors. It's a thousand
pities he isn't in Sandili's place."
The old man had dismounted now, and was haranguing the assembled Kafirs,
such of them as were left, for quite half of the original rioters had
melted away. Here was a thing to have happened, he told them. Children
of the Great Chief to fall to rending each other like quarrelsome dogs,
and that under the eyes of white men; just now, too, when it behoved
them to stand well in the eyes of the white man.
This deliverance, however, was not exactly popular. Even the rank and
venerable age of the speaker could not repress a ripple of resentful
muttering. White men? Mere dogs, dogs whom they would soon send
howling back to their own kraals--was the gist of it. But the old chief
continued his rebuke. Let them go home, he concluded, if they could not
behave otherwise than as half-grown boys.
"I see before me, my friend, Kulondeka," he added. "Now I am going to
talk with a _man_."
"Eulondeka"--meaning "safe"--was the name by which Harley Greenoak was
known to all the Bantu tribes south of the Zambesi. The latter greeted
the old chief with great cordiality, and in a moment they were deep in
conversation.
"I say, I rather like the look of that old chap," said Dick Selmes, who
had skipped up on to the stoep again--he had clean forgotten his late
_protege_ now. "Hanged if I won't stand him a drink. Give him a good
big one, MacFennel."
"He wouldn't touch it, Mr Selmes; no, not if you gave him twenty cows,"
answered the innkeeper, with a laugh. "He's got such an awful example
before him in the shape of his big chief, old Sandili. That old soaker
would think nothing of mopping up a whole bucketful of grog, and as much
more as you liked to stack under his nose."
"By Jove!" exclaimed Dick. "We'll give him a yard of 'bacco instead--
no--give him a whole roll, I'll stand the racket."
"Ah, that'll fetch him," said the other, going inside to find the
required article.
"I say, Greenoak. Introduce me," sang out Dick. "First time I've seen
a chief, and I must have a jaw with him--through you, of course."
The old man, who wore about him no insignia of chieftainship, unless it
were a very old and well-worn suit of European clothes, smiled kindly at
the young one; and remarked that he must be the son of a very great man
in his own country, for he looked it. Then, as Dick handed him the big
roll of Boer tobacco which MacFennel just then brought, he fairly
beamed.
"Oh, MacFennel, I wish you'd give him a lot of beads and things out of
your store," went on Dick, "also on my own account, they'll do fine for
his wives. I expect he's got about twenty."
"All right, Mr Selmes. He may have more though."
"Well, give him a good lot for each one. How many has he got,
Greenoak?"
This was put, Greenoak explaining that it was the desire of the son of
the great English chief to make a present to each, and in the result it
transpired that the old Gaika had less than twenty, but certainly more
than one.
So they chatted on, Harley Greenoak not omitting to tell the chief how
Dick Selmes had interfered to protect the fallen man at the risk of his
own life. The frontier was in a very disturbed state, and there was no
telling what might happen. There was no telling, either, of what
service the act might not prove to one or both of them in the fortunes
of war, and none knew this better than the old campaigner and up-country
man.
The ground was like a regular battlefield. Injured men lay around,
unconscious some, and breathing heavily.
Others would never breathe again; others, too, recovering from their
temporary stunning, were raising themselves labouringly, staring
stupidly around, as though anything but sure as to what had happened.
Broken kerries lay about, and, here and there, a great smear of blood.
Tyala, having filled his pipe from the new and bountiful supply he had
just received, lit it and stalked around the scene of the late disorder.
"_Au_! This is not good, Kulondeka," he said. "Some will be punished
for this. But the fewest lying here are Ndimba's people. That would
seem to tell that ours did not begin the fight."
"That may or may not be, Councillor of the House of Gaika," answered
Harley Greenoak, drily. "It may only mean that the Amandhlambe are the
better fighters."
"_Whau_!" cried Tyala, bringing his hand to his mouth with a quizzical
laugh. "Now, Kulondeka, I would ask where are better fighters than the
men of the House of Gaika? Where?"
"Time will show," was the sententious reply. And on both faces was the
same dry pucker, in both pairs of eyes the same comical glance. They
understood each other.
Then the two talked "dark." Greenoak was anxious to get at the temper
and drift of thought of the Gaika clans under the chieftainship of the
historic Sandili, all located along the border of the Cape Colony and
within the same. Tyala, shrewd and wily, as all native politicians are,
was trying to say as much as he could, and yet give away as little. It
was a battle of wits. Yet, in actual fact, this chief threw all his
influence into the scale for peace.
"_Whau_, Kulondeka, you know the Great Chief, as who, indeed, among all
the peoples do you not know?" he said at last. "Well, then, why does
not _Ihuvumente_ [Government] act accordingly? You know, and
_Ihuvumente_ knows, that the man who has the Great Chief's ear last has
the Great Chief. Sandili does not wish for war, but his young men are
hot of blood. Yet his `word' is all-powerful, and the way he will send
it forth--for great things are maturing--rests with who has his ear. We
are talking, you and I, but what is for four ears is not for more."
"Oh, it will go no further for me," answered Greenoak. And then as the
innkeeper appeared, with a great steaming kettle of black coffee, to
which, when well sweetened, all natives are exceedingly partial, their
conference ended.
The old chief's eyes brightened, as now Dick Selmes began to display
before him all the things he intended he should take home with him.
There was a new blanket for himself--and for his wives, why, Dick seemed
to have cleaned MacFennel's store out of its whole stock of beads.
Mouth accordions too, for the delectation of his younger children,
shining things in gorgeous red cases--why, the delight in Tyala's
household promised to be as widespread as it was unexpected. These were
made over for porterage to some of Tyala's tribesmen who were hanging
respectfully around, and then the old man got up to go.
"He is young and the son of a great man," he said, smiling kindly at
Dick. "Therefore he is generous."
"Well, Dick, you've met your first Kafir chief," said Harley Greenoak,
as they watched old Tyala jogging away on his under-sized pony, a group
of the late rioters in respectful attendance, some mounted, some on
foot.
"Jolly old boy," pronounced Dick, heartily. "Are they all like that?"
For answer there was a laugh. The inquirer had met his first chief; he
was destined soon to meet others--men of a very different stamp, and
under very different circumstances. Then his question would answer
itself.
"Here's a pretty mess," declared the innkeeper, glancing discontentedly
around. "Talk about a battlefield; why, we've got both killed and
wounded here."
"Hallo!" sang out Dick. "Why, my chap has mizzled."
It was even so. The man, to protect whom Dick had so impulsively
interfered, at the risk of his life--at the risk of all their lives--was
no longer to be seen. He must have been only temporarily stunned, and,
recovering consciousness, for reasons of his own had taken himself off
while their attention had been centred on the old chief.
"Ungrateful beggar," went on Dick. "He might have had the decency to
say good-bye to us."
"Probably he didn't know anything of what had happened," said Greenoak.
"You must remember he was already unconscious when you put in your oar."
"Oh--ah, I forgot that," rejoined Dick. And then he thought no more
about it.
"I think we'll inspan and get on," said Greenoak. "I'll report the
affair at Komgha, and they'll send out some police, and the doctor, if
he isn't away over the Kei, that is. Well, Dick, we've started you with
the sight of a first-class row," he added.
"It just was a first-class one," answered Dick. "But the after effects
are a little beastly, eh? Some of these poor devils must be abominably
hurt."
"That, of course. But John Kafir, like other people, if he wants his
fun, has got to pay for it. Such of these fellows as the Police scoop
up as soon as they get right again will be put in the _tronk_ for their
share in to-day's racket."
"The mischief they will! Why? It was a fair fight."
"That's all right, Dick. But faction fights, however fair, are not
exactly allowed on British territory, which this is. Beyond the Kei
it's a different matter."
"We'll go on there, won't we?"
"Oh yes. The best way will be to join some Police patrol. Chambers,
the Inspector in command of A. Troop, is in camp at Komgha now, and
he'll work it for us if any one can. Mind you, although I'm no
scaremonger, it would be rather risky going far into the Gcaleka country
just now, just the two of us, and I'm responsible to your dad for your
safe return, you know, Dick."
"I say, old chap, suppose we stow that responsibility question for a
bit," laughed Dick. "Makes a fellow feel too much in leading-strings,
don't you know."
Harley Greenoak said nothing, and the cart being inspanned, they
reckoned with the hotel-keeper and took the road again.