The Commandant was nothing if not thorough, and as it came home to him
what a marvellous escape the ammunition escort had had, and the direful
effects that would have resulted from the carrying out of the attempt--
not only to the force under his command, but in consequence to many
lives along the frontier--his first impulse was to order the traitor to
be shot, right out of hand. Two considerations, however, moved him from
his purpose, or at any rate to the postponement of it. One was that he
was a man of judicial mind, and deemed it only fair that the culprit
should have an opportunity of making what defence he could; the other a
secret appreciation of the latter's calm courage. For Jacob Snyman had
uttered no prayer for mercy, nor had he put on the swagger of bravado.
To one of the Commandant's temperament this appealed powerfully. In
fact, on thinking further, he was by no means eager to order the Kafir's
execution, and probably he was the only man in the camp wearing the
Police uniform of whom this could be said. So Jacob Snyman--otherwise
Manyelo--was brought before a sort of court-martial consisting of the
Commandant and the commissioned officers, and was asked what he had to
say.
He had nothing to say--what could he have? Then Harley Greenoak came
forward, and told how he had found the fuse and the tinder in among the
ammunition boxes, all ready fired. Told, too, how he had known the
prisoner before and--well, had thought it right to keep an eye on his
doings, and in the result had defeated his daring attempt to desert to
the enemy with one of the ammunition waggons.
The Kafir smiled slightly at this, and shook his head.
"That would have been great," he muttered in his own tongue. "But who
shall perform anything if Kulondeka is there, and is determined he shall
not?"
When Dick Selmes was asked to give his version of the prisoner's attempt
to murder him, he said at once that he'd rather not.
"Is it absolutely necessary, Commandant? It seems as if the wretched
devil had got more on his back than he can throw off as it is," he
pleaded. "I don't want to help drive nails into his coffin."
"Still, you'd better tell us what you know," was the uncompromising
answer. And Dick did so.
The proceedings were as short as they were informal. No interpreting
was necessary, as the prisoner spoke English glibly and well. He was
asked once more if he had anything to say.
Well, he had, was the answer, but he supposed it did not amount to much.
He had joined the Police only with an eye to helping his countrymen,
and, why should he not? Would an Englishman not undergo risk for the
sake of helping his countrymen? Well then, if this was right in an
Englishman, why was it wrong in a Kafir? What Kulondeka had stated was
quite correct. He had volunteered to drive the foremost ammunition
waggon, with the object of preventing it--and, as he had hoped, the
other also--from reaching the Kangala Camp at all; and, had he
succeeded, he would have placed a large store of ammunition in the hands
of his countrymen. The reason why the latter had used no firearms in
yesterday's fight, he said, was for fear of exploding this ammunition.
Those who heard were listening with extraordinary attention. There was
something strangely pathetic in this smiling, unperturbed man telling
his story without hope or fear on the one hand, and without bravado or
defiance on the other. He was, in fact--and he knew it himself--to use
Dick Selmes' syllogism, driving the nails into his own coffin. He
richly deserved his fate of course, but--
When that plan failed, went on Jacob, he had tried to blow up the
waggon. No. He had not blown up the one which had been exploded
before, though it was true that this event had put the idea into his
head. Had he succeeded, the whole of the Police force at the Kangala
would have been annihilated.
"That all?" said the Commandant, tersely.
The prisoner nodded.
"That all," he assented, as though he had been narrating the misdeeds of
somebody else, in which he had no concern whatever.
"Remove him fifty paces back," said the Commandant.
Then the little group conferred. Harley Greenoak stood by listening to
their counsels, but taking no part therein. There was a solemnity in
the demeanour of the younger officers. Even Ladell, who would willingly
have shot the delinquent with his own hand when caught in the act,
inwardly shrank from helping to doom a man to death in cold blood, even
though the man was black and richly deserved his fate. However, the
safety of more than themselves called for stern necessities. The
deliberation was a short one.
"Jacob," said the Commandant, when the prisoner had been brought back.
"On your own showing you have played the part of a spy, a traitor, and a
would-be murderer. In half an hour you will be taken outside the camp
and shot."
"In half an hour?"
"In half an hour," repeated the Commandant, clicking open his watch.
"_Hau_! May I smoke pipe o' 'bacco first?"
"Here!" cried Dick Selmes, springing eagerly forward and wrenching open
his pouch.
The Kafir calmly proceeded to fill his pipe. Then he asked for a light.
No objection was raised.
"I t'ank you, sir," he said courteously, returning the pouch, and
proceeding to emit complacent puffs. There was a silence. Probably the
most at his ease was the culprit, whose life had but minutes to run.
The Commandant, at any time a man of few words, sat back in his camp
chair, his face as impassive as wood, his gaze straight in front of him.
It was a silence nobody cared to break. To Dick Selmes it was
especially awesome, even terrible. He would have liked to plead for the
man's life, but he knew it would be useless. There were but eight
minutes more.
The doomed one, where he was squatting, knocked the ashes out of his
pipe, then half filled it again, with a little tobacco he had kept over,
in the hollow of his hand. A few more puffs. There were but five
minutes to run. The sun flamed in an unclouded sky, the green roll of
hill and plain golden beneath his beam, and for this man, who sat there,
in five minutes should be substituted the Dark Unknown. Yet he sat,
placidly puffing out tobacco smoke at if he had a hundred years to live.
A savage and a heathen, death seemed to hold out for him no terrors
whatever.
The Commandant shut up his watch. The prisoner rose, calling out that
he would like to take his farewell of a very Great One, one who was a
great fighting chief and a great _igqira_ [Doctor] as well; for whom he
had found many magical things--this in reference to the Commandant's
love of collecting to which we have already heard reference made by
Sub-Inspector Ladell. Further, he desired to bequeath to that Great One
something valuable, a "word" of great weight, such as might be the
saving of many lives. He did not ask his own as the price. He merely
wanted to leave a bequest to his father and chief, the Commandant.
Thus, as the latter, having signed that he should be brought forward,
the doomed one stood before his judges.
"What is that `word'?" said the Commandant, shortly.
"This, _amakosi_. The whole of the Gudhluka Reserve is up in arms, and
the Kangala will be heavily attacked this very night."
"And the chiefs--who are they?"
"Vunisa and Pahlandhle. They have been massing their men for days. Now
they are ready."
"And how have you known this, here, under arrest."
The Kafir smiled and shook his head.
"I was not a prisoner the day before yesterday, Great One," he answered.
"If you ran such risks for the benefit of your countrymen yesterday, how
is it you will give them into our hands to-day?" asked the Commandant.
"You are my `father,' Great One, whom I have lived to serve. I go to my
death, but I do not want you to meet yours. To the whole of the
Gudhluka Reserve the _Amapolise_ here are as a mouthful, if taken
unprepared--_if taken unprepared_," he repeated.
Among the young officers there was a stir of sensation. The whole
story, in their opinion, was an impudent cook-up. The fellow had
invented it to save his life. Surely the Chief would not be humbugged
by any such yarn as that. But then they remembered that its inventor
had not even asked for his life. In their whispered remarks Inspector
Chambers and the two other Inspectors took no part. They had unbounded
confidence in the judgment of their Chief.
The latter sat, stroking his long beard as he gazed thoughtfully at the
prisoner. A lifelong experience had taught him that no white man ever
got thoroughly to the bottom of the innermost workings of a Kafir's
mind. He might think he did, only to find that it was just the moment
when he did not. He himself was partial to the natives, and no man was
more appreciative of the good points in the native character. He knew,
too, that a native is very much a creature of irresponsible impulse.
This boy, who would cheerfully have sacrificed them all yesterday, felt
now concerned at the possible risk to his Chief. He had accompanied the
latter on many a collecting expedition in pursuit of his natural history
studies, and had entered into these with enthusiasm and zest; here,
then, was a motive, here a presumption that his weighty warning might be
a true one. None knew better than himself either, the marvellous, if
mysterious, methods which these people had of flashing news from point
to point almost with telegraphic swiftness, wherefore he had no reason
to doubt that this one knew what he was talking about.
"Attend now, Jacob," he said. "You made a grave attempt yesterday
against the safety of all here, and it did not succeed. To-day you are,
as you say, making an attempt to ensure our safety. If that succeeds it
will wash out the other attempt." Then to those who custodied him,
"Take him to the guard-hut, iron his legs at any rate, and put two
sentries on guard--until further orders."
Jacob Snyman, otherwise Manyelo, saluted and was led away. He knew now
that his life was saved.
Dick Selmes and one or two more noticed an almost imperceptible but
approving nod on the part of Harley Greenoak, standing behind the
Commandant, as this decision was given. The latter rose. The
proceedings were ended. It was near evening now, and the whole Force
was immediately put in preparation for giving its expected assailants a
particularly warm reception.
"Well, you're a plucky young swine anyhow, Jacob," growled one of the
troopers who was fixing on the leg irons. "Darned if I didn't think we
should be shovelling you underground just now, instead of anchoring you
tight in a snug hut. But if you don't get us our big fight to-night,
the old man'll still have you shot."
"Oh, you get your fight right enough," answered the prisoner, with a
careless laugh. "Quite as much fight as you want, no fear. I say--any
one got pipe o' 'bacco to spare?"
"Here you are, you young swab, although you did try to blow us all sky
high," said the man, lugging out half a handful. "Still you're plucky
enough anyway."