With the dark smile on his face, and triumph beaming from his
sinister-looking eyes, Umhleswa had left the hut. Koomalayoo, its
owner, was busy hounding on the too willing savages to kill his supposed
rival, for it was by using the suggestion that he and his familiar had
come among them to take the sorcerer's place in the tribe that the
cunning chief had secured Koomalayoo's co-operation. Masheesh now
entered, his first impulse being to pass his sharp knife over the
palmyra rope which yet bound the white men's hands as he did so.
Their first emotion over, the two exchanged a hearty shake of the hand,
looking into each other's eyes, the soldier speaking first.
"The black scoundrel," at last said Hughes, drawing a deep breath, and
shaking himself like a dog. "Wyzinski, we must save poor Luji. Speak
to Masheesh--will you?"
Turning to the Matabele, the missionary spoke long and earnestly; but
the chief kept a dogged silence, shaking his head from time to time,
then looking up into the speaker's face.
"The Amatonga must have blood," he said, slowly. "Shall it be the white
man's? Masheesh can do nothing."
"Will the chief try?" asked Wyzinski; but again he was met by the slow
shake of the head, which told more than words could convey the
hopelessness of the case.
"But if you will not, at all events we will," said the missionary. "It
is a terrible thing to push superstition to such a point."
"Does the white chief disbelieve in the charm cast on the dead
Amatonga?" asked Masheesh, as though such disbelief were monstrous.
"Can the Matabele warrior assert it as his own faith? Is he credulous,
like an Amatonga?" asked Wyzinski in reply.
"How does the white man account for Sgalam's death?"
"The chief Umhleswa knows the use and the value of the English rifle; he
sees the great power it would give him and his tribe. By our death he
would have gained nothing, save two or three rifles. No white traders
would have come near him, and his end and aim would have been
frustrated."
"Mozelkatse's vengeance would have found him out," interpolated the
Matabele.
"True; but Sgalam took another view of the matter, and threatened the
anger of the chief of Manica. Hence the midnight meeting in our hut,
and the death of Sgalam, hence the decision of the sorcerer Koomalayoo
and Luji's persecution. Some one killed Sgalam, and some one must
answer for it."
"So the white chief thinks Umhleswa cast the spell?"
"No, Matabele, no," answered the missionary, "it was a potent poison
which did the work; and Umhleswa had everything to gain by the death,
Luji had nothing."
Masheesh turned away incredulous, not even taking the trouble to reply.
"It will be impossible, I fear, to save the poor fellow; but we must
make the effort, Hughes. You see even this man, belonging to a tribe
far superior in education to these Amatongas, perfectly believes that
Luji by sorcery caused the chief's death."
"Let us try, at least," replied Hughes, as both took their way to the
entrance of the hut.
All had been comparatively quiet, since the Amatonga chief had left the
place, a council having been held outside to determine on the best mode
of punishing the Hottentot sorcerer. The sun was shining brightly, and
a light breeze waving the branches of a group of mashunga trees, under
which the men of the tribe had assembled. Umhleswa had been speaking
rapidly, and doubtless eloquently, to the circle of braves around him.
Near by, stood the unfortunate Hottentot, closely guarded, and if it had
not been a pitiful, it would have been a laughable sight, for, tied in
his usual position, on the prisoner's shoulders, sat the baboon.
Naturally ugly, the brute was rendered still more so from the effects of
the gunpowder explosion, which had scorched its skin, and there it sat,
peeping from side to side of Luji's head, moaning, grimacing, stroking
the Hottentot's face, and showing his teeth to all who came near. The
large tears were streaming down the captive's cheeks, mixing with the
blood and dirt with which they were begrimed.
The chief concluded his speech just as the two white men emerged into
the open air, pointing as he did so to the crouching captive, and the
whole band started up, shouting and yelling, to dash past Luji into the
bush. One loud scream of anguish burst from the man's chest, for he had
heard his fate, and knew that it was death by fire.
Rudely thrust back by the men who had been left to guard them, Wyzinski
and the soldier were powerless, but felt their blood boil within them as
they noted the preparations made. The savages seemed to be holding high
festival in the bush and in the tall, parched-up reeds, and then one
after another appeared bearing bundles of branches and inflammable
grass, throwing them down only to return for more, and thus, laughing,
singing, and yelling, they collected a large pile.
A mass of bare, splintered rock rose in the plain, and towards this
Umhleswa and his subordinate chiefs took their way, while several of the
half-maddened savages laid hold of the Hottentot, the rest dancing
wildly around him. Shriek after shriek rose from the captive as he
resisted, and the points of the assegais, urging him on in rear, drew
blood, the baboon nearly strangling him in his fearful efforts to
escape.
Turning, the poor fellow caught sight of his late masters, and as he
held out his fettered hands, they marked the big tears of agony rolling
down his yellow-black cheeks.
Again Hughes made an effort to escape.
"By heavens, they are going to kill Luji! Oh! for my rifle. At all
events he shall not go alone," he shouted, as he dashed from the
entrance of the hut, and was rudely repulsed by the Amatonga guard.
Wyzinski's eyes were closed, and his thin, finely-cut lips moving as if
in prayer. It was, indeed, a terrible sight.
Two strong stakes had been driven into the ground against the smooth
face of the rock, and the prisoner was now bound firmly to them, in the
fashion of a spread eagle, while all round, in a semicircle, were piled
heaps of dried reeds, branches, and grass, near enough to roast the man
gradually, but not to burn at once, poor Luji's shrieks for mercy
ringing out even above the joyous yells of the Amatongas. Two of the
tribe were engaged in procuring a light by rubbing together pieces of
dry wood, while leaning on his assegai, lazily contemplating the whole
with an air of great satisfaction, stood Umhleswa, showing his filed
teeth and grinning with delight. "And these are the men I thought so
gentle, whom I believed incapable of bloodshed. Fiend, scoundrel,
Umhleswa," shouted Hughes, in his excitement, once more rushing on the
guards at the entrance, and being again roughly thrown back.
The missionary still prayed.
A bright, red glare shot up in the sunshine, as the air, heavily laden
with the sweet scent of the mashunga and the acacia trees, fanned the
burning branches; a cry of human agony and terror, mixed with loud yells
of vengeance and of delight, rang out. Shriek after shriek followed, as
the poor wretch felt the increasing heat, and the flame burned fiercer
and more fiercely, while the horrible baboon, in his terror, dug his
sharp nails into the Hottentot's face, the blood streaming, and the
Amatongas fairly screaming with laughter.
More and more intense grew the fire, and, as the scorching heat became
unendurable, the agony experienced by the baboon increased in intensity.
This he revenged on the unfortunate man. The Amatongas seemed to revel
in the horrible scene, as they filled the pure, afternoon air with their
laughter. Throwing fresh wood on the blaze, they made the fire leap and
roar, while they dashed sharp pieces of rock at the captive, cutting and
bruising his flesh, but avoiding death, as, blinded with his own blood,
and one eye torn from its socket by the mad efforts of the baboon, the
unfortunate Hottentot now moaned feebly. Umhleswa stood by watching the
scene, as he leaned on his long assegai, the ostrich feather floating
over his head, and the panther skin round his waist, from time to time
urging his men to further cruelties, or stirring the fire with the
spearhead.
Fearfully excited, and unable longer to bear the sickening spectacle,
the white men in desperation and rage threw themselves on the guard, and
a fierce hand-to-hand struggle ensued. Not wishing to use their arms,
and less powerful than they, it required all the superiority of their
numbers to resist the shock, for they both fought like madmen, with hand
and foot, only at last to be cast back, stunned and bleeding, into the
hut.
Louder and louder grew the shrieks outside, madder and madder the dance,
round the death-fire. The blaze had died away, and over the embers
dashed the Amatongas, using their long knives, cutting strips out of the
quivering flesh, but craftily avoiding vital parts, they threw them in
the fire. The baboon was dead. A lump of rock had dashed out his
brains, which were bespattered over the half-roasted Hottentot's face
and breast, the shattered head and ungainly body dangling about a
ghastly sight. The man himself hardly presented a vestige of the human
form. One eye hanging out, his limbs smashed by the lumps of rock
hurled at him, the blood pouring from his many wounds, and a long,
feeble, continuous moaning coming from his fire-blistered lips. And now
a fresh batch of reeds and boughs were thrown on the flagging fire, this
time within the former circle. The breeze, laden with the perfume of
the mashunga, fanned it into flame, and it leaped up high in the last
rays of the setting sun, which was tipping the tops of the trees, and
the far-away mountains of the Matopo, with a golden hue. The Kaffir's
hair caught fire, and the horrible smell of the burning flesh
overpowered the scent of the flowers Umhleswa stirred the blaze with his
steel-headed assegai. It was the only merciful deed he had done, for
the fire leaped up more quickly, and the stakes, burned through, gave
way, the mutilated remains of what had been a human body falling heavily
and helplessly forward.
Fresh reeds and branches were heaped on, the flame roared with fury, and
the yells and shouts became louder. Once the mass of blazing wood
moved, a charred hand was thrust forth, and then all was still. The
fire had done its work, and the Amatongas seemed appeased. Noti slept
beneath the shadow of the ruins of Sofala, the restless surf moaning
over his grave. The lions had killed him, but Luji's ashes, reduced to
fine dust, were blowing over the plains before the night breeze, when
the moon shone forth over the sorcerer's hut and the smoke-begrimed
rock.
The Amatonga nature had proved more relentless than the lions, the man
more savage than the beast.
Volume 1, Chapter XIV.