The sun had risen in all its splendour, the smoke from the many fires
curling spirally up into the air, for there was hardly the faintest
breeze. Every thing betokened the heat of an African day. Under the
shadow of their tree sat the two Europeans, their rifles leaning against
its trunk. Luji was near, playing with the baboon, which was chattering
and making hideous faces; the missionary busily employed taking notes of
the journey, and Hughes skinning carefully the caracal he had that
morning shot. Things seemed to have quieted down in the kraal, and the
excitement to have partially at least died away. Not knowing whether
they were to consider themselves prisoners or not, though the guard had
not resumed their post, and thinking if they left the camp the act might
be wrongly construed by Umhleswa, the white men remained where they
were.
"What is the matter with the Matabele?" asked Hughes, as he raised his
eyes and saw Masheesh coming down among the huts in a manner very
different from his usual stately pace.
"We shall soon know the cause; see how the muscles of his black face are
working, and listen to the shouts of the Amatongas behind him. Well,
Masheesh, what's wrong?" asked Wyzinski, looking at him, with his pencil
and note book in his hand.
"Sgalam is dead!" replied the Matabele, in an excited tone.
"And who the deuce is Sgalam?" asked the missionary, calmly bending his
head once more over his work.
"The chief who spoke so bitterly against the white men; he who
threatened to denounce Umhleswa if they were not put to death; refusing
to hear the words of Mozelkatse, and who was threatened by Luji with
death."
"Well, a chief has departed from among his people, and the Amatonga have
lost a brave; but what then?"
"The evil eye has done it. The white men have bewitched their enemy,
and he is dead."
The full danger of the situation dawned on the missionary's mind as
Masheesh said this, and turning to Hughes, he told what had passed. The
latter only laughed.
"Since we have been in Africa," he replied, "I have not seen one
instance of violence or bloodthirstiness. A more gentle race I never
met with. Why it is the custom even among the warriors who have shed
blood in battle, to consider themselves unclean, and a native who has so
much as touched a dead body is thought so. What is there to fear?"
"The whole native population of South Africa is superstitious, and these
Amatongas are a low caste tribe, more superstitious than most. You
heard Umhleswa ask about the rain?"
"Yes, I know he did."
"Well, not only have they their rain makers, but their sorcerers; and
they believe firmly in witches, ghouls, the evil eye, and vampires.
They will kill all their cattle on the order of one of these sorcerers,
and starve by hundreds."
"Well, if that is the case, it certainly is enough to excite them, that
the very man who was the most bitter against us should die thus
suddenly. It is a very strange circumstance that Luji should have
denounced him."
While they were talking the shouting and yelling seemed to approach
rapidly, and now a band of Amatonga, their naked bodies smeared with
paint, came rushing down from among the huts. In a moment more than a
hundred yelling savages surrounded the tree, shouting, screaming, and
brandishing their assegais. The rifles could do nothing against such a
number.
"Our only hope is in Umhleswa," whispered the missionary, as he bent his
calm face over his note book, apparently unconcerned. They were a
terrible looking set, those dark-skinned Amatongas, and the two
Europeans felt themselves completely in their power.
Hideously ugly, with their enormous mouths, woolly hair, and receding
foreheads, they had still further disfigured themselves with paint
Masheesh did all a man could do to quiet them, but it was no use; the
white men were seized, separated, and their rifles taken from them,
their hands being firmly tied together. Luji shared their fate, and the
monkey very much frightened, jumped to his usual place on his shoulders,
jabbering and grimacing. Several blows with the wood of the assegais
were given, and thus ill-treated, with the whole band of yelling savages
around them, the captives were driven up the centre of the Amatonga
village.
The change in their situation had indeed been a sudden and dangerous
one. Relying on the promise of the chief, all anxiety had been
dismissed from their minds, and the future had seemed bright and fair
before them. A few minutes later, they found themselves bound
prisoners, and on their way to the hut of the dead man.
They reached the entrance, where on the threshold sat the wife of the
dead chief, rocking herself to and fro, and uttering a succession of
wailing cries. Suddenly starting up as the captives approached, she
spoke quickly to the braves around her, gesticulating and screaming.
She was urging her people to sacrifice the murderers of her husband, as
an expiatory offering on the chief's grave. This much the missionary
could understand, as he bent his calm, clear eye on the excited
countenance of the frantic woman. The quiet glance seemed only to
enrage her more, as shaking her long skinny fingers in his face, she
turned and dashed into the death-chamber.
Jostled violently along, the two prisoners found themselves standing in
the hut close together.
"We are lost, Hughes," said the missionary, in low, hoarse tones.
"The chief may save us," replied his comrade. "There is yet hope."
Inside the women were chaunting, in loud drawling tone, the good
qualities of the deceased, telling of his virtues in peace, his wisdom
in the council, and his great deeds of war. The body itself lay
stretched at full length in one corner, lying on some panther skins.
"There is hope there," whispered the missionary. "Look at the dead
man's face, the pinched-up features, that small dark stream flowing from
the lips, the tongue hard, black, and dry, hanging from the mouth, and
the limbs drawn up with cramp. He has been poisoned."
"By whom?" asked Hughes, as the two stood, their hands bound behind
them, gazing on the sickening spectacle.
"By Umhleswa. It was his interest to do this, and if so, he is watching
the result."
A rush of people into the hut now separated the two, while outside the
shouting of the men, the jabbering of the baboon, and from time to time
a yell from Luji, who was evidently the most suspected, was heard.
The two white captives, separated from each other, were now forced into
a sitting position, one on each side of the corpse, while the women,
ever chaunting the praises of Sgalam, proceeded to lay the body out. It
was quite nude, and though cold, had not yet stiffened. The tongue
which, thickly coated with yellow, had been protruded, was now forced
back into the mouth. A rope of palmyra fibre was brought, and the women
then proceeded to swathe it round with the cord, giving the body a
sitting position. This operation lasted a couple of hours, during which
the prisoners were kept apart, as spectators, the noise outside never
ceasing. Hughes, who now had the notion that both were to be sacrificed
on the dead chief's grave, attempted to speak across the hut to the
missionary, but a heavy blow was the reward. Wyzinski's calm face and
thin features relaxed into a smile, as the soldier returned the blow by
means of a violent kick, and found himself the next moment powerless
lying on his back, and a stout rope of palmyra round his legs.
Strangely situated as they were, it was a curious sight. The busy
women, singing their monotonous song; the sitting corpse stiffening into
the position that had been given it. Outside, shouting and wild
excitement, and every now and then some Amatonga brave dashing into the
hut, yelling out half a dozen phrases in praise of the dead Sgalam, and
dashing away, to be followed in turn by others. In one corner the
soldier firmly bound, in another the missionary, his hands only tied.
At length a litter of branches was brought, the sitting corpse placed
upon it, the hut became filled with savages, the rope which confined the
soldier's legs was unfastened, and the two were ordered to follow the
bier, which was conveyed outside. A circle of dark braves swept round
the captives, their glittering knives in their hands, as the procession
moved off, the leading men of the tribe grouping themselves round the
corpse shouting and yelling. They had not far to go, for the journey
ended at an enclosure a few hundred yards from the dead warrior's hut.
The bright sun streamed over them as they entered this enclosure, which
was in fact the place where the chief's cattle had been penned. There,
right in the centre, a deep hole had been dug, and into this, ever
preserving his sitting position, the body was lowered, the songs,
screams, and shouts increasing in intensity, as the broad hoes threw
back the light earth into the grave. Slowly but surely the body
disappeared, for a hundred hoes were at work dragging the sand back.
The face of the dead was gradually covered, the hole was filled, and
there, in the centre of his cattle shed, sat the dead Sgalam concealed
from all eyes. The men with the hoes threw them aside, and commenced a
strange slow dance round the grave; then, pausing, with wild yells, the
savages threw themselves on the captives, and in a moment they were on
the ground struggling vainly for their lives, with a hundred bright
blades gleaming in the sunshine around them. Their tribe imperilled by
the white man's foolish curiosity, one of their best warriors and most
noted chiefs killed by them,--for they firmly believed it,--the two
delinquents were about to moisten with their blood the grave of the
Amatonga brave. The moment was a critical one, when suddenly the wily
Umhleswa appeared among them, his Spanish gun in his hand, the ostrich
plume in his hair, and the panther skin round his waist. His glittering
eyes ran over the group, as with a few deep guttural words, he bore back
the crowd of savages.
"Would you kill the innocent, and spare the guilty?" he shouted, waving
his hand toward the white men, who now rose covered with sand, but
unhurt. "The Amatonga have a custom; would you break that custom, and
defile the grave of our brother with the blood of the innocent? Let the
far-seeing Koomalayoo be consulted; let the sorcerer of the tribe speak
out, and let those who have done this deed die."
"To Koomalayoo, to Koomalayoo," yelled the Amatonga, and the
well-planned purpose of the wily savage was accomplished. Moving along
among the huts, the groups of excited savages, their numbers ever
increasing, bore with them the dirt-begrimed white men, and the
frightened Luji. An ox was driven out of an enclosure and placed at the
head of the procession, the whole moving on slowly under one of the
conical hills, and taking its way towards the neighbouring forest.
Bound with palmyra rope, and the baboon firmly tied in its usual
position on his shoulders, Luji's face seemed the very picture of abject
terror, while the ape, fairly cowed, jibbered and moaned.
The missionary as usual looked calm, resigned, and confident, but a
heavy scowl sat on the soldier's face. The escort kept on their way,
shouting, screaming, and clattering their spears against their shields.
About half a mile outside the Amatonga kraal, under a grove of trees,
stood a solitary hut. Near it rose a mass of rocks, and the plain
around was thick brush. This was the dwelling of Koomalayoo, the
dreaded sorcerer of the tribe. It was he who had told of the coming of
the white men, and it was his now to decide their fate. The ox was
driven into the cattle enclosure belonging to the hut, as a present to
Koomalayoo, who at once made his appearance.
This man was an Amatonga, and possessed to a rare degree the distinctive
ugliness of the race. His flat nose, monkey-like forehead, and huge
slit of a mouth, surmounted a body literally a skeleton. The face was
that of the living dead, so emaciated was it; the body seemed a
framework, with a black skin drawn tightly over it. The eyes alone were
bright and restless. A collar and waist-belt of human bones, with
anklets and wristbands of the same material, made a clatter as he
walked, while in his hand he held a short wand, apparently of pure gold.
Such was the noted Koomalayoo, who now glanced over the group of
captives, his restless eyes fixing themselves on Luji's face, with an
expression which boded him no good. A circle was formed, the captives
being inside it at one end, Umhleswa and the sorcerer at the other.
Umhleswa now made a long speech, telling of the coming of the strangers,
and of their having by chance stumbled upon the sacred ruins, profaning
them by their presence. The history of the council was given fairly
enough, and of Sgalam's hatred to the Europeans.
The incident of the monkey and of Luji's threats was largely dwelt on,
and Koomalayoo's eyes grew intensely bright as he fixed them on the
unlucky Hottentot, whose face turned a yellow livid colour with fear.
The Umhleswa then proceeded to point out that the white chiefs were not
present at the council, again referred to the threats used by Luji, and
to the mysterious character of the baboon, winding up artfully with a
defence of his policy, because of the benefits which would result from
trade with the white men.
Calico, beads, guns, knives, he spoke of as falling to the lot of the
poorest Amatonga, and having thus worked on their cupidity, the wily
savage ceased speaking.
Koomalayoo rose, and without a word stalked out of the circle, which
opening to let him pass, closed again. All kept silence--a deep dead
silence--as the diviner entered his hut; and so great was the stillness
that his monotonous voice could be heard reciting incantations, as the
sorcerer mixed the potion which was to give him clairvoyance. About a
quarter of an hour passed--not a soul moving--before he again appeared,
holding a gourd in his hand. Whatever were its contents, he drank the
whole at a draught, threw the gourd from him, and once more entered the
circle, where, seating himself on the ground, he remained silent, his
eyes bent downwards, apparently waiting for the coming inspiration. All
looks were fixed upon him, and not a word was spoken. At last he
suddenly started to his feet and began speaking rapidly, following out
the tale from beginning to the end, winding up with the death of the
warrior Sgalam. "Sorcery has done this," he continued. "The strong man
does not die in an hour; the warrior's soul does not start for another
land like that of the weakly infant. Is it the men of the Batonga who
have done this deed? No. Is it the braves of Manica? No. The
Matabele are among us. Does the blow come from them? Mozelkatse's
warrior would scorn the deed. Is it from the Madanda, or the strange
tribes of Gorongoza, death has come, or has the evil eye been used by
the dwellers on the Maxe, who love us not? No. To none of these does
the far-seeing eye of Koomalayoo trace the deed. But white men are with
us, white men who are not traders. Have they worked the evil?"
Koomalayoo paused. A subdued murmur ran through the circle. Wyzinski's
face looked calm and natural as usual; but the soldier's, though
unconscious of the meaning of the words, was flushed, and he himself
nervous and excited. The murmur died away, and again the sorcerer
spoke. A sigh of relief burst from the missionary's lips as Koomalayoo
continued. "I tell you, no. It is not the white men whose blood must
atone for that of the dead chief--No." All at once, whirling round as
on a pivot, the arm and hand holding the gold rod fully extended, the
diviner span round; then as suddenly stopping, the rod pointed right
between Luji's eyes. "It is the black skin who has come among us, with
his familiar demon on his shoulders. Behold the worker of the charm!
When the black imp leaped upon our brother among the warriors in
council, he spit the venom into his ear. That night our brother died."
Koomalayoo's eyes fairly blazed with fury as he looked full at Luji's
quivering, shrinking frame. The man seemed fascinated, and his
terror-stricken face turned into bronze as the sorcerer yelled forth the
terrible words, "Let fire drive out the demon from among us," and fell
to the ground apparently exhausted.
For a moment there was a deep, dead silence; the rustle of the leaves
could be heard as the light wind played through the trees; the next, the
circle was broken, the whole mass of the Amatonga precipitating
themselves on the doomed Hottentot, throwing down the two white men as
they pressed on, and trampling them under foot, while the air, a moment
before silent, became filled with yells and discordant shouts, the
shrill scream of terror distinctly heard above all.
Hughes, not knowing what was to happen next, had seized the nearest
Amatonga brave and was busy throttling him, shouting as he did so as
loudly as the rest in his excitement. The man's eyes were starting out
of his head, his tongue was protruding, when a dozen strong hands
dragged the soldier from his victim, and thrust him bruised and
breathless into the hut. The missionary was there before him, and there
too stood the wily Umhleswa, showing his sharply-filed teeth, while his
little cunning eyes danced with triumph.
"Umhleswa is a chief," he said, slowly moving to the entrance of the
hut, and looking back on the astonished prisoners as he stood in the
bright sunshine. "He has not lied to his white brother." He waved his
arm and disappeared.
Volume 1, Chapter XIII.