"WHERE HE WAS."
Even with the first slip and stumble of his horse Lamont realised that
his last moment had come; and, as he lay pinned there and unable to
move, he restrained a natural instinct to call for assistance. His
fleeing comrades could not render him such, and the attempt would result
in the certain sacrifice of their own lives. His time had come.
He was powerless for resistance. His magazine rifle was lying on the
ground beyond his reach, and his revolver was crushed beneath him in
such manner that he could not get at it. Helpless he awaited his end,
agonising and bitter as such must be.
He saw the swarming savage faces, scowling beneath their war adornments,
the tossing shields and uplifted assegais, as that dark crowd surged
forward, eyeballs glaring and blades lifted, eager to redden the latter
in the blood of a hated and now helpless enemy. He heard the guttural
death-hiss vibrate upon the air--and then--and then--he saw and heard no
more. His horse, rendered frantic with terror, had made a wild effort
to rise, and in so doing had so crushed its rider's leg that the latter
had fainted through sheer acute agony.
"_Wou_! This has gone on too long. He has said that none should be
spared."
"Yet, this one is."
"Ill will befall us, brothers; ill because of it." And Gingamanzi, the
highest in rank of the group of Abantwana Mlimo there deliberating,
clicked deprecatorily, and spat.
This Gingamanzi was a small, crafty-looking Makalaka, very black, and
with a nose almost aquiline, giving a predatory and hawklike aspect to
his forbidding countenance. His status in the hierarchy of the
Abstraction was hardly second to that of Qubani, indeed there were those
who reckoned his gifts the greater.
The group was seated in the open--a huge, riven granite pillar towering
up behind them. Above, around, everywhere, vast granite blocks were
piled, shutting in the place on all sides. It had been raining heavily
for several hours, though by now it was sullenly clearing, and on the
wet earth, stamped flat and muddy by hundreds of feet, fires were
springing up in the dusk, and the hum of many voices rose and fell upon
the damp heavy air.
Hundreds were collected here; all fighting men, no women and dogs.
Weapons of war lay behind each group, just as they had been put down:
shields, assegais, guns of all sorts and sizes, axes, knob-sticks. It
was evident that this was an important stronghold and rallying point for
the Matabele impis in the field.
"Zwabeka will bring destruction upon us, brothers," went on Gingamanzi.
"He it is that spared this Makiwa. He laughs at Umlimo."
"Perhaps he is but keeping him as a sacrifice to Umlimo," said another.
"A man half dead already would make a poor sacrifice."
"Zwabeka is chief here now," went on Gingamanzi meaningly. "By the time
the sun has risen twice, he will not be. We will go and look at this
Makiwa, and see how soon he will be ready for Umlimo. Zwabeka will not
give him to us now, but when he is dead, he will be glad to."
"_Au_!" grunted another, "I am but a child beside the chief of the
Abantwana Mlimo. Still I would ask--Of what use is one who is already
dead, as a sacrifice to Umlimo?"
Gingamanzi put his head on one side.
"Thou art but a child! Ah! ah! that is true, Kekelwa. For the man will
not really be dead but will only seem to be. If I can but touch him
with this; one touch, even one little touch that he will hardly feel;
why then he will be as one dead to the beholders, and yet he will know
all that goes on. He will even be able to feel."
"Then he will move," was an objection raised. "How then will they think
him dead?"
"He will not move. The _muti_ here is such that he will not move,
although he will know and feel." And the black little demon
contemplated lovingly a sort of lancet that he had drawn from a wooden
sheath. The keen point was encrusted with something. Grim heads craned
eagerly forward to examine the thing. _Whau_! the _muti_ of Gingamanzi
was wonderful, wonderful, declared his satellites sycophantically.
"Then, when they think him dead, we will take him away to the right
place, and revive him again. _Whau_! Umlimo will laugh, spending days
and nights listening to his shrieks and groans. This big strong Makiwa,
this leader of impis, he shall weep and whine like a woman or a dog
under that which we shall make him suffer, and that for days. Come, we
will go and see him, and it may be now I shall touch him with the _muti_
point."
With a hum of ferocious anticipation the group arose. These undersized,
lean Makalaka, who led the superstitions of the superior race, made up
for their lack of physical prowess in the field by a love of cruelty at
home, and woe betide him who should be handed over to their tender
mercies. That one they reckoned ought so to be, and hoped would be, we
have gleaned from the above conversation--and this one a white man.
They made their way to a great block of boulders, the piling of which
formed a spacious natural cave. In this several Matabele warriors were
lounging, some cooking food at a fire near the entrance. By the fitful
red light of the flickering flames another recumbent form could be made
out at the far extremity of the place. As the sorcerers would have
entered, several of the warriors sprang to their feet, and barred
passage.
"Give way; give way," ordered Gingamanzi curtly. "We would see the
Makiwa."
"That may not be, Umtwana Mlimo," came the ready reply. "He has said
it--our father--that none may approach the Makiwa."
"But another _he_--who is greater still--has said that _his_ servants
may. How is that, Umfane?"
"_Whau! `Umfane_!' I _Umfane--I_, who wear the ring!" And the tall
warrior scowled down upon the puny representative of an inferior race.
"_Umfane_ or not, thou art going into battle again soon," returned
Gingamanzi. "But it will be thy last. Not through death--that were
easy--but a warrior who has lost the use of his legs, and has to walk on
his hands like a dog--why, he had better be dead. But dead or not he
has fought in his last battle. How sayest thou?"
"_Eh! he_! How sayest thou?" echoed the sorcerers.
"How say I? This is how I say," answered the warrior, noting that some
of his comrades seemed to be wavering. "For what happens in battle I
will take my chance. For what happens here I have to answer to my
father, and chief. His word was: let none enter, and--on the head ring
of Umzilikazi--none _shall_ enter--no, not even were it Umlimo himself."
The speaker's voice had risen to a roar, to which was added a shrill cry
of menace and resentment from the group of sorcerers at this blasphemous
utterance. Even the bold one's comrades looked somewhat aghast. Would
they ultimately yield? And yet--and yet--far away in Gandela one
broken-hearted woman was wearying high Heaven day and night on behalf of
him now threatened with this new and ghastly peril.
"Thy next battle will be thy last," said Gingamanzi slowly, pointing a
menacing finger at the obdurate sentinel.
"That we shall see. _Hau_! I seem to remember the chief of these
Abantwana Mlimo, when we were doctored, promising us that Makiwa's
bullets should turn to water. Yet, at Kezane, Makiwa's bullets were
made of very hard lead. And he who told us this was Gingamanzi."
This was a facer, and partly accounted for the secret contempt in which
the sorcerers were held by many in the nation. Moreover, since the
rising had begun, the fighting men had been brought into daily contact
with them, to the detriment of their _prestige_. Then, too, they always
skulked in a place of safety when fighting was to the fore--all save
one, and that one Qubani. But Qubani was not present in this camp.
Now Gingamanzi was an uncommonly difficult person to put down, and
lacked not readiness or assurance, else had he not filled the position
he did.
"Hard lead," he repeated when the sneering laughter of the warriors had
abated. "Hard lead! Ha! Those who found them so were those who were
wanting in faith. They suffered doubt as to our powers to linger in
their hearts while we were doctoring them. So the _muti_ failed in its
effect."
"_Eh! He_!" assented the residue of the sorcerers.
"Thou scoffing dog!" shrilled Gingamanzi. "Wilt thou now give passage
lest worse befall thee?"
For answer the other had picked up a gun.
"I will give thee `dog,'" he said, bringing it up. But the sorcerers
were thoroughly scared, and scattered yelling. Their _muti_ was not
proof against this, anyhow.
"_Hambani-gahle, Abantwana Mlimo_!" With which contemptuous dismissal
Ujojo turned his back on the irate sorcerers, and, going to the end of
the cave, bent over the recumbent form of his late master.
The latter moved restlessly, not recognising him. The fact was that the
shock of capture and the pain of his bruised leg, coming upon the strain
of the few days preceding, had told upon even Lamonts iron
constitution--added to which several days of wet weather and exposure
had brought about a bad attack of up-country fever. Now he lay covered
with several blankets, yet shivering as though he were lying in contact
with an iceberg.
His escape from death at the assegais of his captors was hardly short of
miraculous; and was partly due to the wave of wonder that went through
those who beheld him, reckoning as they did that he had been blown to
atoms in his own dwelling, partly to the intervention of Zwabeka; about
half of the impi which had reinforced the assailants of the Kezane Store
being composed of that chief's own followers. Now Zwabeka was not
acting out of sheer good-nature when thus intervening, although, as a
matter of fact, he liked Lamont, and would rather see him alive than
dead. He had a motive underlying, and the motive was this. Zwabeka did
not believe in the rising or in its ultimate success. He had been more
or less drawn into it, but he was far too shrewd a man to believe that
the whites would ever be driven out of the country, or that, even if
they were, they would not return in tenfold force. Then where would he,
and others, come in? Therefore, he was for `hedging,' in pursuance of
which line he was for saving Lamont's life--if possible.
If possible! But these were times when it hardly seemed possible--when
more than once a furious clamour was raised for the prisoner's life. It
had been discovered that he had been in command of the force which had
offered such a staunch and stout resistance at the Kezane, and before.
This was no man to let go, they represented, to do them incalculable
damage in the future. Besides, think of their own people who had been
slain--was no vengeance due to them? And the agitators were backed up
by at least one chief of equal standing with himself, together with
Gingamanzi and his band of Abantwana Mlimo.
But Zwabeka, albeit a morose savage, and given to pessimism, was a man
of character; and having made up his mind to the line he had chosen to
adopt, had no idea of wavering a hair's-breadth therefrom. Wherefore,
when such tumults were at their height, he would ask the clamourers what
satisfaction there could possibly be in killing a man who was nearly
dead already--pointing to the prisoner, who was so weak and ill he could
hardly sit on his horse. That would be poor revenge for anyone. Give
him time to get well again, anyhow.
This told--to a certain extent--but what told still more was a
declaration, on the part of Zwabeka, that those who wanted to kill the
prisoner could fight for the privilege. This Makiwa was his prisoner,
and he intended to dispose of him as he chose.
By the time they gained their resting-place, the remote hollow in which
we have seen them, Lamont found himself most piteously ill; indeed it
seemed to matter but little to him whether the constant clamourings for
his death should be acceded to or not. He had almost ceased to care
whether he lived or died.
Seeing him sink lower and lower Zwabeka shook his head and muttered.
Over and above the advantage it would be when the rising had failed, to
be able to say to the Government, "Look now--here is one of your
commanders, who led against us. I have taken care of him, when the
people would have slain him. Have I not? Ask him." Over and above
this, we say, he had expected substantial reward at the hands of the man
himself. And now the man would not get well, seeming to prefer to die.
The native doctors--not necessarily despicable in cases known to them--
had been able to do nothing. Zwabeka was puzzled.
Just then, however, his luck seemed to turn. Some of his people who had
been out, partly on a scout, partly maraud, brought him some news. In
the result he went straight to the bedside--or rather blanket side--of
his prisoner.
"Hearken, Lamonti," he began, when the guard had got outside with
alacrity and a respectful salute. "You are not yet tired of life?"
"Almost," was the wan reply. "But why?"
"I can get you one of your own doctors. Will you send him word to
come?"
Lamont stared, half raising himself. "But--it is war time, or--has
peace been made?"
"Not so. But he shall come and go in safety." The other thought for a
moment. Then he said--"I dare not do it, Zwabeka. You are chief of
many, but not of the whole nation. If the man should come to harm at
the hands of others, would not I have lured him to his death? Who is
he?"
"_Au_! He cannot come to harm--Qubani says so," said the chief
impatiently. "It is the doctor who came with you, and slept at my
kraal."
Lamont started. Father Mathias! But then he was not a doctor, not in
the sense the chief had meant. Well, no matter. It would be good to
see once more a friendly face, to press a friendly hand.
"Where is he?" he asked eagerly.
"Will you send for him?" returned the chief. "_Au_! he will be in no
danger. He is a good doctor and has cured several of Madula's people.
He is there now."
That settled Lamont. If the priest was right among the hostile natives
already, why then he would be just as safe here as there, if not safer.
It seemed too from Zwabeka's words that he possessed some knowledge of
medicine.
The chief now saw he had gained his point. Calling up two of the men
who were on guard, he ordered them to listen carefully to Lamont's words
and remember them, and to aid them in this Lamont managed to find an old
scrap of tattered envelope, and scratch two or three words on it. "You
are a true friend, Zwabeka," he said, when they were alone together
again. "_Au_! we have been friends, but men forget friendship when
there is war. But--not you."
"That is so, Lamonti, and it may be that we shall sit down side by side
once more. Yet for the present, be not slow to get well, for, as you
did now say, I am not chief over the whole nation, and others may come
in here at any moment. Then the way out will be hard. Now, rest."
Rest! After the chief's departure it seemed to Lamont that restfulness
had fled from him for ever. He was aroused indeed. It was evident that
Zwabeka meant to contrive his escape. Happiness again--which spelt
Clare. During his long, weary march into this captivity the thought of
her had simply maddened him, until the fever had reached its more
prostrating stage; deadening, perhaps mercifully, the more acute mental
throes. He was being led to his death, he had told himself, and she in
the years to come would forget him, and find happiness with somebody
else. Not even in the next world would they belong to each other. And
then the effect of the fever had rendered him careless whether he lived
or died.